J-NRLF 


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fc! 


A  GUIDE  TO  PICTURES 

FOR  BEGINNERS  AND 
STUDENTS 


BY 
CHARLES    H.    CAFFIN 

M 

AUTHOB  OP 

"THE  APPBECIATION  OP  THE  DEAMA" 


GARDEN  CITY       NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1913 


OOFYBIGHT,  1908,  1910,  BY 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 


THE  COUNTRY  UDfE  PRESS,  GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y  . 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    THE  FEELING  FOR  BEAUTY 11 

II.  ART  JND  HER  TWIN  SISTER,  NATURE         .        .       21 

III.  NATURE  is  HAPHAZARD;  ART  is  ARRANGEMENT  .       30 

IV.  CONTRAST 40 

V.     GEOMETRIC  COMPOSITION 55 

VI.  GEOMETRIC  COMPOSITION  (Continued)  ...       63 

VII.  THE  ACTION,  MOVEMENT,  AND  COMPOSITION  OF 

THE  FIGURE 75 

VIII.    THE  CLASSIC  LANDSCAPE 83 

IX.  NATURALISTIC  COMPOSITION    .       .       .               .95 

X.  NATURALISTIC  COMPOSITION  (Continued)      .        .106 

XL  THE  NATURALISTIC  LANDSCAPE      .       .       .       -117 

XII.     FORM  AND  COLOR 129 

XIII.  COLOR 144 

XIV.  COLOR — VALUES — SUBTLETY 160 

XV.  COLOR — TEXTURE,  ATMOSPHERE,  TONE        .       .180 

XVI.    COLOR— TONE 204 

XVII.     BRUSH-WORK  AND  DRAWING 219 

XVIII.  SUBJECT,  MOTIVE,  AND  POINT  OF  VIEW     .       .     230 


285870 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING 
PAGE 

View  on  the  Seine      .     Homer  D.  Martin     .   Frontispiece 

La  Disputd,  del  Sacramento Raphael  56 

Jurisprudence      ........  Raphael  66 

The  Manitou  Lunette        .       .       .       .     E.  H.  Blashfield  86 

Dido  Building  Carthage     .       .       .        .  J.  M .  W .  Turner  92 

The  Sower J.F.Millet  100 

Young  Woman  Opening  a  Window         .       .      J.  Vermeer  108 

Crossing  the  Brook J.  M .  W.  Turner  118 

J.  B.  C.  Corot  128 

E.  Leutze  140 

Velasquez  168 

J.  M.  Whistler  176 

Correggio  192 


Washington  Crossing  the  Delaware 

Prince  Balthazar  Carlos     . 

The  Little  White  Girl 

The  Mystic  Marriage  of  St.  Catherine 


Light  and  Shade 
Evening       .       , 


George  Inness    202 
Anton  Mauve    246 


A  GUIDE  TO  PICTURES 

FOR  BEGINNERS  AND  STUDENTS 


A  GUIDE  TO  PICTURES 

FOR  BEGINNERS  AND   STUDENTS 

CHAPTEK   I 
THE  FEELING  FOR  BEAUTY 

SOME  of  you,  I  expect,  collect  photographs  of 
pictures  in  connection  with  your  history  studies. 
These  portraits  of  the  principal  characters  and  pic- 
tures, illustrating  great  events,  places,  costumes,  and 
modes  of  living  of  the  period,  add  greatly  to  the  in- 
terest of  your  reading.  They  bring  the  past  time 
vividly  before  your  eyes. 

But  it  is  not  this  view  of  pictures  that  we  are 
going  to  talk  about  in  the  present  book.  I  shall  have 
very  little  to  say  about  the  subjects  of  pictures — 
partly  because  you  can  find  out  for  yourselves  what 
subjects  interest  you;  but  mostly,  because  the  sub- 
ject of  a  picture  has  so  very  little  to  do  with  its 
beauty  as  a  work  of  art.  For  it  is  this  view  of  a 
picture,  as  being  a  work  of  art,  that  I  shall  try  to 
keep  before  you. 

I  remember  seeing  the  photograph  of  a  picture 
hanging  in  a  place  of  honor  on  the  wall  of  a  girl's 
room ;  and  I  asked  her  why  she  had  chosen  this  par- 
ticular one  out  of  many  that  she  had.  You  see  that, 
in  order  to  help  anyone,  you  have  to  try  to  get  into 

11 


A  Guicb  to  Pictures 

their  minds,  and  finil  out  how  their  minds  are  work- 
ing ;  and  as  much  of  my  work  is  with  girls  and  boys, 
I  try  to  get  from  them  hints  as  to  the  best  way  of 
helping  them.  Well,  this  girl,  let  me  tell  you,  bub- 
bled over  with  life  and  fun,  swam  like  a  fish  and 
climbed  trees  like  a  squirrel;  but  she  had  her 
thoughtful  moods,  when,  as  often  as  not,  she  would 
lay  out  her  collection  of  photographs  of  pictures  on 
the  floor,  and  not  only  look  at  them,  but  think  about 
them.  And  I  have  no  doubt  that  she  was  in  one  of 
those  moods,  when  she  chose  out  this  particular 
print  and  hung  it  on  her  wall,  in  order  that  she  might 
see  it  often. 

So  I  asked  her  why  she  had  chosen  it,  and  she 
said :  "  Because  I  liked  it"  I  asked  her  why  ? 
"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  said.  Now  that  is  just  the 
sort  of  girl  or  boy  for  whom  I  am  writing  this  book. 
ISFot  that  I  think  that  girl  would  have  liked  her  pic- 
ture any  better  for  knowing  why  she  liked  it.  Then, 
"  What  is  the  good,"  you  ask,  "  of  writing  a  book 
to  help  her  to  know  \  "  A  very  shrewd  question  and 
quite  to  the  point.  Let  me  try  to  answer  it. 

When  the  girl  said  she  did  not  know  why  she  liked 
the  picture,  I  think  she  meant  that  she  could  not  put 
into  words  what  she  felt.  It  was  the  feeling  with 
which  the  picture  filled  her  that  made  her  like  it.  I 
could  understand  what  she  meant,  because  I  remem- 
bered an  experience  of  my  own.  The  first  time  that 
I  saw  Raphael's  Disputd,  which  decorates  a  wall  in 
one  of  the  rooms  of  the  Vatican  in  Rome,  I  had  set 
out  with  my  guidebook,  intending  to  study  all  tke 

12 


The  Feeling  for  Beauty 

paintings  by  Raphael  that  decorate  these  rooms.  I 
entered  the  first  room  and,  I  suppose,  looked  round 
the  walls  and  saw  three  other  paintings;  but  all  I 
recall  during  this  visit  was  the  Disputd.  I  sat  down 
before  it  and  remained  seated!  I  do  not  know  how 
long,  but  the  morning  slipped  away.  What  I 
thought  about  as  I  looked  at  the  picture  I  cannot 
tell  you.  My  impression  is  that  I  did  not  think 
at  all;  I  only  felt.  My  spirit  was  lifted  up  and 
purified  and  strengthened  with  happiness.  Return- 
ing  to  my  hotel,  I  read  about  the  picture  in  the 
guidebook.  It  appeared  that  one  of  the  figures 
represented  Dante.  I  had  not  noticed  it,  and  as  I 
read  on  I  found  out  other  things  that  I  had  missed ; 
that,  indeed,  the  whole  subject,  so  far  as  it  could 
be  put  into  words,  had  escaped  me.  I  had  no  knowl- 
edge of  what  the  painting  was  about ;  only  I  had  felt 
its  beauty. 

Since  then  I  have  studied  the  picture  and  discov- 
ered some  of  the  means  that  Raphael  employed  to 
arouse  this  depth  of  feeling,  and  the  knowledge  has 
helped  me  to  find  beauty  in  other  things. 

So,  to  go  back  to  my  girl  friend,  I  would  not  dis- 
turb the  beauty  of  her  feeling  with  teachy-teachy 
talk,  any  more  than  I  would  talk  while  beautiful 
music  was  being  played.  But,  suppose  in  a  simple 
way  I  could  make  her  understand  that  I,  too,  felt 
the  beauty  of  the  picture;  and,  as  I  have  learned 
a  little  how  to  express  feeling  in  words,  should  try 
to  tell  her  how  I  felt  the  beauty.  Might  it  not  add 
to  her  pleasure,  if  she  discovered  that  I  was  putting 

13 


A  Guide  to  Pictures 

into  words  some  of  the  feeling  that  she  herself  had, 
and  perhaps  suggesting  other  beauties  that  she  had 
not  felt  ? 

Well,  that  is  what  I  hope  to  do  for  you  in  this 
book,  to  put  some  ideas  into  your  head,  that  will 
lead  you  to  look  for  and  find  more  and  more  beauty 
in  pictures  and  in  nature  and  in  life.  Ideas,  mark 
you,  not  words.  We  shall  have  to  use  words,  but 
words  are  of  no  account,  unless  they  make  you  feel 
the  idea  contained  in  them. 

I  say  feel;  and  you  will  notice  I  have  used  these 
words,  feel  and  feeling,  several  times  already.  I 
have  done  so  because  I  want  to  impress  upon  you 
that  the  enjoyment  of  beauty,  whether  in  pictures 
or  any  other  form,  comes  to  us  through  feeling.  It 
may  lead  to  thinking,  and  perhaps  should,  but  it  does 
not  begin  with  thinking  or  reasoning,  as  does,  for  ex- 
ample, algebra  or  geometry.  JSTor  can  we,  as  we 
sav>  "  get  ^  down  fine,"  in  the  way  we  do  with  the 
Latin  declensions.  When  you  have  learned  them 
thoroughly,  you  know  them  once  and  for  all,  and 
you  know  about  them  just  what  every  other  girl 
and  boy  who  has  learned  them  knows.  With  feel- 
ing it  is  otherwise.  What  you  feel  is  different  to 
what  /  feel;  we  can  never  feel  alike.  ISTo  two  peo- 
ple can.  So  I  am  not  going  to  tell  you  what  you 
ought  to  feel  about  pictures ;  nor  am  I  going  to  try 
and  persuade  you  to  like  one  and  not  like  another. 
Therefore,  this  book  would  not  be  much  help  to  you 
in  passing  an  examination  about  pictures,  if  any- 
thing so  foolish  could  be  supposed.  But  I  hope  it 

14 


The  Feeling  for  Beauty 

may  start  your  imagination  off  in  a  great  many 
new  directions,  and  help  you  to  discover  more  and 
more  of  beauty  not  only  in  pictures,  but  in  life. 

For  we  should  study  pictures  not  solely  for  their 
own  sake,  but  also  as  a  means  of  making  our  lives 
fuller  and  better.  If  you  ask  me  what  is  the  most 
beautiful  thing  in  the  world,  I  shall  not  say  art, 
although  I  am  writing  about  pictures — but  life — its 
fullness  of  possibility  and  abundance  of  oppor- 
tunity. Especially  young  life ;  the  lives  of  you  girls 
and  boys,  who,  as  yet,  have  so  few  mistakes  to  regret, 
so  much  to  look  forward  to  of  promise  and  fulfill- 
ment. What  you  will  make  of  those  lives  of  yours 
may  depend  a  little  upon  schools  and  teachers,  pa- 
rents and  friends,  money  and  health,  and  many  other 
things,  but  most  of  all  upon  your  own  wills.  I  won- 
der if  you  have  read  the  life  of  Eobert  Louis  Steven- 
son? 

He  had  only  such  education  as  many  other  boys 
of  his  time  had,  little  or  no  money,  and  very  poor 
health.  But  what  a  deal  he  made  of  his  own  life 
and  how  he  helped  the  lives  of  others!  What  a 
fellow  he  was  for  fun,  and  how  he  loved  wisdom;  a 
great  worker  and  a  greatly  conscientious  one;  not 
satisfied  unless  his  work  was  the  very  best  that  he 
could  make  it.  And  the  reason  was  that  he  loved 
beauty  as  well  as  wisdom;  and  in  his  life  and  writ- 
ings, because  in  his  own  inward  thoughts  wisdom 
and  beauty  went  hand  in  hand.  I  know  of  no  better 
example  of  the  full  life;  of  a  life  made  the  most 
of,  in  the  best  and  truest  sense,  with  gladness  and 

15 


A  Guide  to  Pictures 

strength  for  itself  and  for  the  lives  of  others.  While 
his  body  sleeps  on  an  island  mountain,  overlooking 
the  vast  heauty  of  sky  and  ocean,  his  spirit  stays 
with  us. 

The  secret  of  the  fullness  of  Stevenson's  life  was 
that,  so  far  as  in  him  lay,  he  left  no  portion  of  the 
garden  of  his  life  uncultivated.  There  were  no  waste 
places,  every  part  was  fruitful.  He  did  the  best 
that  he  could  for  his  poor,  weak  body;  kept  his  in- 
tellect bright  with  learning,  his  fun  alert  with  hope, 
his  friendships  warm  with  sympathy;  and  kept  his 
life  and  work  sweetened  and  purified  and  strength- 
ened by  the  love  of  beauty.  He  was  in  a  high  sense 
in  love  with  life — his  own  life,  the  lives  of  others, 
and  life  in  art  and  nature,  and  the  abundant  harvest 
of  his  garden  is  the  love  that  countless  men  and 
women  and  children  bore  him  and  still  maintain. 

Such  fullness  of  life  is  rare.  Boys  and  girls,  and 
for  that  matter  men  and  women,  cultivate  some  part 
of  themselves,  and  let  the  rest  go  to  waste.  And 
the  part  which  is  most  apt  to  be  overlooked  is  the 
sense  of  beauty.  We  train  our  bodies  and  our  minds, 
but  neglect  those  five  senses,  which  are  just  as  much 
a  part  of  us.  It  is  true  that  men  train  their  senses 
for  the  practical  purposes  of  business:  the  watch- 
maker, for  instance,  his  delicacy  of  touch;  the  tea 
producer,  his  senses  of  taste  and  smell ;  the  mariner, 
his  senses  of  sight  and  sound.  But  business,  though 
necessary,  is  not  everything.  We  do  not  confine  the 
exercise  of  our  bodies  and  minds  to  work  and  busi- 
ness, but  use  them  also  for  enjoyment,  and  train  them 

16 


The  Feeling  for  Beauty 

for  this  purpose.  Do  we  not  learn  to  swim,  play 
ball  and  tennis,  and  practice  other  bodily  exercises 
for  the  pure  enjoyment  of  them  ?  Or  in  our  leisure 
moments  busy  our  brains  with  study  of  bees,  ma- 
chinery, history,  all  kinds  of  difficult  subjects  not  as 
work,  but  as  a  relief  from  work  ?  We  call  them  our 
"hobbies,"  and  indulge  them  for  pleasure,  and  find 
that  the  pleasure  improves  our  health  and  spirits, 
and  in  the  end  even  makes  us  do  our  necessary  work 
better,  and  so  find  more  pleasure  in  that  also.  For 
it  is  in  what  we  know  best  and  can  do  best  that  we 
really  take  most  pleasure.  And  though  life  cannot 
be  all  pleasure,  yet  pleasure,  rightly  understood, 
should  be  one  of  the  chief  aims  of  life.  And  one 
of  the  chief  sources  of  pleasure  is  to  be  found  in  the 
beauty  that  reaches  our  minds  through  the  senses, 
especially  through  the  senses  of  sight  and  sound. 

Let  me  illustrate  in  a  simple  way  how  one  child 
will  gain  pleasure  from  her  senses  while  another 
doesn't.  Both  have  their  five  senses  in  working  order 
— smell,  taste,  touch,  sight,  and  sound — and  have 
been  in  the  woods  gathering  flowers.  They  reach 
home.  One  throws  her  handful  down  on  a  sofa, 
table,  or  chair,  or  the  nearest  bit  of  furniture,  and 
goes  off  to  do  something,  or  it  may  be  nothing,  leav- 
ing the  flowers  to  wither  and  become  an  untidiness. 
What  made  her  gather  them  ?  Perhaps,  because  she 
is  full  of  health  and  had  to  run  about  and  do  some- 
thing ;  perhaps,  because  she  has  not  quite  gotten  over 
the  fondness  that  most  of  us  had,  as  babies,  for 
breaking  and  tearing  things.  It  amused  her  to  break 

17 


A  Guide  to  Pictures 

the  big  stems  and  tear  off  the  vines  or  pull  up  the 
little  plants.  Or  possibly  she  was  really  attracted 
by  the  beauty  of  the  flowers,  but  soon  tired  of  them, 
and  went  off  to  other  things. 

Not  so,  however,  with  her  companion.  She 
spreads  a  paper  on  the  table,  lays  out  her  flowers, 
brings  one  or  two  vases,  and  settles  down  to  the 
pleasure  of  arranging  them.  She  picks  up  a  flower, 
and  while  she  waits  to  decide  in  which  vase  it  shall 
be  put,  see  how  delicately  she  handles  it!  You  can 
tell  in  a  moment  she  has  a  feeling  of  love  and  ten- 
derness toward  the  flower.  She  puts  it  in  a  vase,  and 
then  her  eye  travels  over  the  other  flowers  to  decide 
which  shall  bear  it  company.  What  color,  what  form 
of  flower  will  match  best  the  first  one  \  And  while 
she  is  making  the  choice  almost  unconsciously  she 
sniffs  the  fragrance  of  that  spray  of  honeysuckle. 
Well,  she  lingers  so  long  over  the  pleasure  of  arrang- 
ing her  flowers  that  we  have  not  time  to  stay  and 
watch  the  whole  proceeding;  but  presently,  when  we 
come  back,  we  find  the  vases  filled  and  set  about  the 
room  where  they  will  look  their  best ;  this  one  in  the 
dark  corner  with  the  wall  behind  it;  another  on 
the  window  sill,  so  that  the  light  may  shine  through 
the  petals  of  the  flowers.  And  we  think  to  ourselves 
what  taste  the  girl  has !  For  (have  you  ever  thought 
of  it?)  we  use  the  word  taste,  which  originally  de- 
scribed only  the  sense  of  tasting  things  with  the 
tongue,  in  order  to  sum  up  a  finer  use  of  the  senses 
of  sight  and  sound. 

And  this  finer  use  of  the  senses,  such  as  Steven- 
18 


The  Feeling  for  Beauty 

son  cultivated,  so  that  his  life  and  works  are  beauti- 
ful as  well  as  wise  and  good,  we  too  may  cultivate, 
and  it  is  the  object  of  this  book  to  help  us  do  it.  I 
call  it  a  guide  to  pictures,  but  I  want  to  make  it 
much  more  than  that — a  guide  for  the  wonderful 
organs,  your  senses,  that  they  may  grow  more  and 
more  to  feel  the  beauty  that  is  all  about  us  in  nature 
and  in  life,  as  well  as  in  pictures  and  other  works 
of  art.  So  beauty  is  really  our  subject,  beauty  in 
nature  and  in  art.  The  two  are  separate,  though 
united  as  twin  sisters. 

As  I  write,  many  of  you  are  enjoying  your  sum- 
mer vacations,  face  to  face  with  nature.  The  health 
of  the  mountains  or  the  sea  is  in  your  blood;  your 
bodies  know  the  joy  of  active  movement ;  your  minds 
are  filled  with  the  interest  of  new  scenes  and  adven- 
tures, of  sports  and  fun  with  friends.  But  every 
once  in  a  while  I  think  it  likely  that  your  happiness 
is  increased  by  something  beautiful  you  have  seen 
in  nature.  Perhaps  even  now,  as  you  read  these 
words,  there  comes  to  you  the  memory  of  some  sun- 
set, or  moonlight  on  the  water,  of  early  morning  mist 
creeping  among  the  tree  tops,  or  I  know  not  what  of 
nature's  beauty,  suddenly  revealed  to  you  because  you 
were  in  the  mood  to  receive  it. 

You  were  in  the  company  of  a  friend,  and  you 
drew  your  arm  closer  through  his  or  hers,  and  both 
were  the  happier  for  the  beauty  that  was  before  you 
and  had  entered  into  your  hearts.  Or  perhaps  you 
were  alone,  and  the  eagerness  came  over  you  to  make 
some  record  of  your  joy — in  a  letter  to  a  friend  or 

19 


A  Guide  to  Pictures 

in  some  poem  for  no  eyes  but  your  own.  You  felt 
the  need  to  give  utterance  to  your  joy  in  nature's 
beauty.  You  had  in  you  a  little  of  the  desire  that 
stirs  the  artist 

And  this  brings  us  to  the  other  kind  of  beauty, 
which  is  not  of  nature,  though  it  is  of  nature's 
prompting — the  beauty  created  by  the  artist.  We 
are  going  to  study  the  work  of  artists  who  create 
beauty  in  pictures.  But  do  not  make  the  mistake 
some  people  do,  of  thinking  that  it  is  only  painters 
who  are  artists.  An  artist  is  one  who  fits  some 
beautiful  conception  with  some  beautiful  form  of 
expression.  His  form  of  expression,  or  as  we  say, 
his  art,  may  be  sculpture,  painting,  or  architecture; 
or  some  handicraft,  as  of  metal  or  porcelain  or  em- 
broidery ;  or  it  may  be  music,  the  composing  of  music 
or  the  rendering  of  it  by  instrument  or  voice ;  it  may 
be  acting  or  some  forms  of  dancing ;  it  may  be  poetry 
or  even  prose.  The  artist,  in  a  word,  is  one  who  not 
only  takes  beauty  into  his  own  soul,  but  has  the  gift 
of  art  that  enables  him  to  communicate  the  beauty  to 
others  by  giving  it  a  form  or  body.  If  he  be  a  mu- 
sician, he  gives  it  a  form  of  sound;  if  a  painter,  a 
form  visible  to  the  eye.  It  is  his  power  of  creating 
a  form  for  the  beauty  which  he  feels  that  makes 
him  an  artist.  And  in  its  various  forms — poetry, 
music,  painting,  sculpture,  architecture,  and  the  rest 
— art  is  man's  highest  expression  of  his  reverence  for 
and  joy  in  beauty. 


20 


CHAPTER   II 

ART  AND  HER  TWIN  SISTER,  NATURE 
A  Work  of  Art  is  Distinguished  by  Selection 

IN"  the  previous  chapter  we  talked  about  beauty,  and 
noted  that  there  were  two  kinds — beauty  in  na- 
ture and  beauty  in  art.  Let  us  now  look  a  little  more 
clofcely  into  this  distinction,  so  that  we  may  grasp 
the  idea  of  what  a  work  of  art  is. 

Since  what  the  painter  puts  onto  his  canvas  is  visi- 
ble to  the  eye,  it  will  generally  represent  or  suggest 
some  form  in  nature.  So  the  painter  is  a  student  of 
nature.  But  not  in  the  same  way  as  the  botanist  who 
studies  the  forms  of  trees  and  plants  which  grow 
above  the  ground,  or  the  geologist  who  explores  the 
secrets  of  the  earth  below  the  ground.  These  we  call 
scientists  or  scientific  students,  because  the  object  of 
their  study  is  exact  knowledge  of  nature.  They  ad- 
dress themselves  directly  to  our  intellects  and  teach 
us  to  know  the  facts  of  nature  accurately;  but  the 
painter  appeals  first  to  our  sense  of  sight  and  helps 
us  to  feel  more  deeply  the  beauty  of  the  visible  world. 

Unless  we  thoroughly  grasp  this  difference  we 
shall  never  properly  understand  what  painters  try 
to  do,  nor  be  able  properly  to  enjoy  their  pictures. 

21 


A  Guide  to  Pictures 

So  here,  at  the  beginning  of  our  talks  together,  let 
us  look  into  this  difference. 

We  have  said  that  the  painter  represents  or  sug- 
gests some  form  in  nature.  Sometimes  he  represents 
the  actual  appearance  of  nature,  as  when  he  paints 
a  portrait  or  a  landscape.  At  other  times  he  sug- 
gests the  possible  appearance  of  things,  which  he  has 
never  seen  but  only  imagines,  as  the  old  Italian 
painters  did  when  they  made  pictures  of  St.  George, 
killing  the  dragon,  or  of  Christ  in  the  manger,  with 
a  choir  of  angels  hovering  above.  They  had  never 
seen  a  dragon,  but  from  their  study  of  the  lizard, 
which  in  hot  countries  like  Italy  may  constantly  be 
seen  basking  on  the  hot  rocks  or  darting  away  at  your 
approach,  they  imagined  a  form  and  painted  it  so 
that  it  suggests  an  actual  creature.  So,  for  their  an- 
gels, they  studied  the  forms  and  movement  of  chil- 
dren, as  they  ran  and  played,  with  hair  and  skirts 
streaming  in  the  wind ;  also  the  wings  and  the  flight 
of  birds,  and  the  appearance  of  the  sky.  Mature 
was,  as  it  still  remains,  the  artist's  teacher.  Just  in 
what  way  he  learns  of  her  and  uses  her  lessons,  I  am 
going  to  try  and  show  you.  But  first  let  me  remind 
you  that  nature  and  art,  though  so  close  together  that 
I  have  called  them  twin  sisters,  are  quite  separate. 
I  do  so  because  many  people  confuse  them  together. 
Frequently  you  will  hear  a  person  say  of  some  view 
of  nature  that  it  is  "  beautiful  as  a  picture."  Well, 
very  likely  it  is,  but  as  we  shall  see,  not  in  the  same 
way.  Or  some  one  will  exclaim,  as  he  stands  in 
front  of  a  picture,  "  It  looks  like  nature."  So  it 

22 


Art  and  Her  Twin  Sister,  Nature 

does ;  and  yet  it  is  not  really  like  nature.  Why  both 
these  remarks  are  in  a  small  way  true,  but  in  the  big 
sense  not  true,  we  shall  discover,  I  hope,  presently. 
Meanwhile,  suppose  we  lay  the  book  aside  and  look 
out  of  the  window. 

Are  you  living  in  the  country  or  city  ?  In  either 
case  you  are  looking  out  at  nature,  as  the  painter 
understands  the  word.  For,  while  we  who  are  not 
painters,  when  we  talk  of  nature,  have  in  mind  the 
earth  and  sky  and  water,  and  the  living  things  that 
move  therein,  as  beasts,  birds,  and  fishes,  and  the 
forms  that  live  but  do  not  move,  trees  and  flowers 
and  seaweed,  for  example,  and  also  the  chief  of  liv- 
ing and  moving  creatures — man;  the  painter  uses 
the  word  nature  in  a  wider  sense.  With  him  it 
means  everything  outside  himself,  so  that  it  includes 
things  made  by  man:  streets,  buildings,  chairs,  and 
tables — the  thousand  and  one  objects  that  man's 
brain  and  handiwork  have  fashioned  out  of  the  ma- 
terials of  nature. 

But  you  are  waiting  at  the  window,  looking  out, 
perhaps,  upon  a  street — a  row  of  buildings,  many 
people  on  the  sidewalks,  carriages  and  carts,  passing 
before  your  eyes;  or  else  into  the  garden  of  your 
country  home,  with  its  trees  and  shrubs  and  flowers, 
and  possibly  a  view  of  fields  and  hills  and  woods.  In 
each  case  the  woodwork  of  the  window  frames  in  the 
view.  Move  slowly  backward  and  you  will  notice  that 
the  view  grows  smaller  and  smaller;  advance  again 
and  the  view  spreads  out  farther  and  farther ;  step  to 
the  left  and  some  of  the  view  on  that  side  disappears, 

23 


A  Guide  to  Pictures 

but  you  will  see  more  toward  the  other  side.  Im- 
agine for  a  moment  that  the  woodwork  of  the  win- 
dow is  a  picture  frame  and  you  are  deciding  how 
much  of  the  outside  view  you  will  include  in  the 
picture.  If  you  own  a  kodak  and  are  in  the  habit  of 
taking  pictures,  you  move  the  camera  or  your  posi- 
tion until  the  image  in  the  "  finder  "  seems  to  be 
about  what  you  wish  to  photograph.  Whether  you 
thus  use  the  "  finder  "  or  the  window  frame,  you  are 
selecting  a  bit  of  nature  for  a  picture. 

This  should  make  clear  to  you  one  of  the  differ- 
ences between  nature  and  art.  ^Nature  extends  in 
•every  direction  all  round  the  artist,  an  unending 
panorama  from  which  he  selects  some  little  portion 
to  form  the  subject  of  his  work  of  art.  But  he  car- 
ries his  selection  still  farther,  for  even  in  the  part 
of  nature  that  he  has  selected  there  is  so  much  more 
than  he  could  ever  put  into  his  picture.  Take  an- 
other look  out  of  the  window.  What  a  mass  of  de- 
tails the  whole  presents !  And,  if  we  fix  our  eye  on 
any  one  of  its  parts,  it  also  is  made  up  of  a  number 
of  details.  It  would  be  impossible  for  the  artist  to 
paint  them  all.  And  so,  also,  if  your  view  from  the 
window  is  a  country  scene  and  you  look  at  one 
object,  that  elm,  for  example.  Do  you  think  it  would 
be  possible  for  an  artist  to  paint  all  the  scales  of  the 
bark,  all  the  spreading  limbs,  much  less  all  the  little 
branches  and  twigs  and  the  countless  leaves? 

As  the  artist  cannot  possibly  paint  everything,  he 
must  choose  or  select  what  he  will  leave  out  and  what 
he  will  put  in.  Once  more,  the  characteristic  of  art 

24 


Art  and  Her  Twin  Sister,  Mature 

is  selection,  while  that  of  nature  is  abundance.  We 
talk  of  nature's  prodigality ;  we  say  that  she  is  prodi- 
gal of  her  resources,  flinging  them  around  as  a  prodi- 
gal or  wasteful  man  flings  around  his  money.  You 
know,  for  example,  how  the  dandelion  scatters  its 
seeds  broadcast  over  the  lawn ;  how  the  daisies  spread 
over  the  fields  until  the  farmer  calls  them  the 
"  white  weed  " ;  how  the  woods  become  choked  with 
undergrowth  and  the  trees  overhead  crowd  one  an- 
other with  their  tangle  of  branches.  The  lawns  and 
fields  must  be  continually  weeded ;  the  woods  cleared 
and  thinned.  Man,  in  fact,  when  he  brings  nature 
under  the  work  of  his  hand,  is  continually  selecting 
what  he  shall  weed  out  and  what  he  shall  let  remain. 
And  so  the  artist  with  the  work  of  his  hand — his 
work  of  art. 

Suppose  we  make  believe  that  we  are  watching  an 
artist  as  he  begins  his  work  of  selection.  The  one 
over  there,  sitting  under  a  big,  white  umbrella  with 
his  easel  in  front  of  him,  will  serve  our  turn.  If 
he  will  let  us  look  over  his  shoulder,  we  shall  see 
that  with  a  few  strokes  of  charcoal  upon  his  canvas 
he  has  already  selected  how  much  of  the  wide  view 
in  front  of  him  he  will  include  in  his  picture.  It 
finishes,  you  see,  on  the  right  with  a  bit  of  that  row 
of  trees  that  stand  against  the  sky,  and  on  the  left 
with  that  small  bush,  so  that  in  between  is  a  little 
bit  of  the  winding  road,  with  a  meadow  beyond 
dotted  with  cows.  He  has  squeezed  some  of  the 
paint  from  the  tubes  on  to  his  palette,  and  takes  up 
his  brushes.  Now  watch  him  "  lay  in,"  as  he  would 

25 


A  Guide  to  Pictures 

say,  "  the  local  colors  " ;  that  is  to  say,  the  general 
color  of  each  locality  or  part  of  the  scene. 

The  general  color  of  the  sky  is  a  faint  blue;  of 
the  trees  on  the  right,  a  grayish  green;  of  the  bush 
on  the  left,  a  deeper  green ;  of  the  meadow,  a  yellow- 
ish green,  while  that  of  the  road  is  a  pinkish  brown, 
for  the  soil  of  this  part  of  the  country,  we  will  sup- 
pose, is  red  clay.  All  these  local  colors  he  lays  in, 
covering  each  part  with  a  flat  layer  of  paint  so  that 
his  canvas  now  presents  a  pattern  of  colored  spaces. 
Yet  already  it  begins  to  "  look  like  something."  We 
can  see,  as  it  were,  the  ground  plan,  on  which  the 
artist  is  going  to  build  up  his  picture.  But  now  he 
must  stop,  for  his  paints  are  mixed  with  oils  and 
take  some  time  to  dry,  and  he  cannot  work  over  the 
paint  while  it  is  sticky. 

A  few  days  later  we  pay  him  another  visit.  He 
has  been  busy  in  our  absence;  the  picture  looks  to 
us  to  be  finished,  and  we  begin  to  compare  it  with 
the  natural  scene  in  front  of  us.  In  nature  those 
trees  on  the  right  stand  so  sharply  against  the  sky 
that  we  can  count  their  branches.  Evidently  the  ar- 
tist hasn't,  for  in  his  picture  he  has  left  out  a  great 
many  of  them ;  indeed,  he  has  put  in  only  a  few  of 
the  more  prominent  ones.  See,  too,  how  he  has 
painted  the  trees ;  he  hasn't  put  in  a  single  leaf.  In- 
stead he  has  represented  the  foliage  in  masses,  lighter 
in  some  parts  where  the  sun  strikes,  darker  in  the 
shadows.  When  we  compare  his  trees  with  the  real 
ones,  they  are  not  a  bit  the  same,  and  yet  the  painted 
ones  look  all  right;  we  can  see  at  once  that  they 

26 


Art  and  Her  Twin  Sister,  Nature 

are  maples  and  in  a  general  way  very  like  the  real 
ones. 

The  artist  hears  us  talking,  and  he  says :  "  My 
business,  you  see,  is  not  to  make  real  trees ;  that's  na- 
ture's business ;  I'm  a  maker  of  pictures,  and  in  them 
I  only  suggest  that  the  trees  are  real.  I  try  to  make 
you  feel  that  these  are  maple  trees  " — and  he  points 
to  that  part  of  the  picture  with  his  brush — "  and  I 
hope  also  to  make  you  feel  their  beauty.  I  don't 
give  you  an  imitation  of  nature,  but  a  suggestion 
of  nature's  truth. 

"  Now  see,"  he  says,  "  how  I  have  painted  those 
cows :  just  a  few  dabs  of  brownish  red  and  black  and 
white,  showing  against  the  green  of  the  grass.  Do 
they  suggest  cows  to  you  ? "  "  Yes,"  we  say  in 
chorus. 

"  Well,  I  hope  they  do,"  he  replies,  "  and  that  you 
don't  say  f  yes '  merely  to  please  me.  But  if  you 
had  never  seen  a  cow  would  you  know  from  these 
dabs  what  a  cow  is  really  like  ? 

"  I  am  sure  you  wouldn't,"  he  goes  on  without 
waiting  for  an  answer ;  "  and  if  the  farmer  gave  me 
a  commission  to  paint  his  favorite  prize  cow,  I  am 
sure  he  wouldn't  be  satisfied  with  these  dabs.  And 
I  should  not  blame  him.  No,  in  that  case  I  should 
place  the  cow  where  I  could  study  it  closely:  the 
long,  straight  line  of  the  back,  the  big  angle  of  the 
hips,  the  strong-ribbed  carcass,  and  its  covering  of 
glossy  hair,  the  mild  liquid  eyes,  and  damp  nose. 
These  and  a  great  deal  more  I  should  paint,  if  I  were 
near  the  cow.  But  look  at  those  cows  over  yonder. 

27 


A  Guide  to  Pictures 

They  are  a  long  way  off,  and  consequently  look  very 
small.  I  can't  see  in  them  the  different  points  that 
I  know  a  cow  has ;  to  my  eyes  from  where  I  sit  they 
look  as  I  have  painted  them.  For  an  artist  does  not 
paint  what  he  knows  to  be  there,  but  what  he  can  see 
from  here. 

"  Look,"  he  continues,  picking  up  a  tiny  pointed 
brush.  "  See  what  happens,  when  I  paint  what  I 
know  to  be  there !  "  And  with  quick,  deft  strokes 
he  proceeds  to  sharpen  the  lines  of  the  back  of  one 
of  his  cows  in  the  picture,  and  give  her  four  very 
decided  legs ;  to  hang  a  tail ;  and  give  her  horns ;  and 
titivate  the  head,  put  in  an  eye  and  make  the  tongue 
curl  round  the  muzzle. 

"  Why,  it  looks  like  a  toy  cow ! "  we  exclaim. 
And  so  it  does. 

And  now,  instead  of  intruding  any  longer  on  our 
artist  friend's  time,  let  us  see  where  our  visit  to  him 
has  brought  us. 

We  have  noted  that  one  difference  between  nature 
and  art  is,  that  nature  is  inexhaustible  in  her  effects, 
and  that  an  artist  selects  from  her  only  some  little 
part  to  make  his  work  of  art.  Secondly,  that  he  does 
not  paint  the  whole  of  what  he  has  selected,  but  out 
of  it  again  selects  certain  parts ;  sufficient  not  to  imi- 
tate the  original,  but  to  suggest  its  appearance. 
f  Thirdly,  that  natural  truth  is  not  the  same  as  artis- 
tic truth;  that  while  the  scientific  man  studies  one 
thing  at  a  time  so  that  he  may  know  what  is  there, 
the  artist  tries  to  obtain  an  impression  of  the  whole 
scene,  and  paints  each  part  of  it,  not  as  he  knows 

28 


Art  and  Her  Twin  Sister,  Nature 

it   to   be,   but   as   he  can   see   it   from   his   fixed 
position. 

By  this  time  you  can  better  understand  that  to  say 
of  nature  "  It  is  as  beautiful  as  a  picture,"  is  a  loose 
way  of  talking.  Nature  is  beautiful  in  the  endless 
variety  of  its  effects ;  a  picture,  for  the  one  or  two  ef- 
fects, choicely  selected  by  the  artist.  And  to  say  of  a 
picture  that  it  looks  like  nature  is  equally  inaccurate, 
for  the  artist  does  not  imitate  nature  but  suggests  it, 
which,  as  we  have  seen,  is  a  very  different  thing. 

However,  I  should  tell  you,  that  some  painters  do 
imitate  nature.  I  have  seen  a  picture  in  which  the 
painter  had  represented  a  five-dollar  bill,  pinned  on 
a  board,  and  so  accurately  had  he  imitated  the  bill 
and  the  board  that,  until  you  were  close  to  them  and 
passed  your  hand  over  the  flat  canvas,  you  would  not 
know  it  was  a  picture.  And  there  is  a  story  told  of 
a  Greek  painter,  Zeuxis,  that  he  once  imitated  a 
bunch  of  grapes  so  exactly,  that  the  birds  flew  down 
and  pecked  at  it. 

But,  although  it  is  a  fact  that  a  great  many  people 
think  this  exact  imitation  of  nature  a  very  fine  thing, 
they  do  so  because  they  have  not  seen  many  pictures 
or  found  out  what  a  work  of  art  really  is.  I  am  in- 
clined to  think  that,  by  the  time  you  have  finished 
this  book,  if  not  sooner,  you  will  look  upon  such  ex- 
amples of  skill  and  patience  as  labor  in  vain,  so  far 
as  art  is  concerned. 

It  is  all  very  well  for  the  conjurer  to  boast  that 
the  quickness  of  his  hand  deceives  your  eye.  ^But  the 
aim  of  the  artist  is  not  deception.  , 

29 


CHAPTEE  III 
NATURE    IS    HAPHAZARD:   ART    IS   ARRANGEMENT 

WE  have  seen  that  the  characteristic  of  nature  is 
abundance,  while  that  of  art  is  selection. 
!Now  let  us  note  another  difference  between  the  two 
— nature  is  haphazard,  art  is  arrangement. 

I  do  not  forget  that  nature  works  by  laws;  that 
the  workings  of  nature  are  not  accidental,  but  the 
result  of  certain  causes  which  produce  certain  ef- 
fects; so  that  the  operations  of  nature  produce  an 
endless  chain  of  cause  and  effect.  Thus  in  the  fall, 
because  the  sap  flows  downward  in  the  tree,  the  fiber 
of  the  leafs  stalk  is  gradually  weakened,  until  the 
leaf  by  degrees  loses  its  hold  on  the  branch,  and, 
because  everything  obeys  the  law  of  gravitation,  falls 
to  the  ground.  But  where  will  it  fall?  That  may 
depend  upon  the  force  and  direction  of  the  wind.  It 
may  happen  that  the  wind  is  from  the  north  or  from 
the  west;  that  its  breath  is  soft,  or  that  it  blows  a 
gale.  I  say  it  "  may  happen"  so  or  so ;  for  this  is 
our  habit  of  speech.  When  we  don't  understand  the 
cause  from  which  an  effect  springs,  we  use  the  word 
"happen,"  as  if  the  affair  were  an  accident  or 
chance. 

But  a  scientific  man  would  say  that  such  words 
30 


Nature  is  Haphazard:  Art  is  Arrangement 

as  "  accident "  and  "  chance  "  are  inaccurate,  and 
would  tell  us  why  the  wind  was  blowing  from  a  cer- 
tain direction  at  a  certain  moment,  and  tell  us  why 
it  was  soft  or  fierce.  And  yet,  why  should  the  tiny 
leaf  have  been  ready  to  let  go  just  at  the  moment 
when  the  breeze  came?  Upon  what  particular  spot 
will  the  dandelion  seed,  after  floating  far  in  the  air, 
alight?  We  may  believe  that  the  moment  and  the 
place  are  controlled  by  one  Great  Mind  to  whom 
everything  is  plain.  But  to  our  finite  minds,  whose 
capacity  to  understand  is  limited,  such  things  are  not 
plain.  They  seem  to  us  like  chance,  and  their  results 
appear  to  our  eyes  haphazard. 

Compare,  for  example,  the  appearance  of  nature 
with  that  of  a  well-kept  garden.  The  latter  has 
straight  paths,  intersecting  one  another;  trim  bor- 
ders with  rows  of  lettuces  and  radishes;  separate 
plots,  reserved  for  peas,  corn,  spinach,  potatoes,  and 
other  crops.  Even  the  straggling  vines  of  the  cucum- 
bers are  kept  within  certain  bounds.  Everywhere  is 
an  appearance  of  order  and  arrangement,  beside 
which  the  tangle  of  growth  in  the  woods,  or  even  the 
dotting  of  trees  on  the  hillside,  seems  haphazard. 
Or  look  out  into  the  street,  which,  as  you  remember, 
in  the  painter's  sense  of  the  word  is  a  part  of  nature. 
The  city  authorities  have  laid  out  the  lines  of  the 
street,  but  the  buildings  vary  in  size  and  style ;  each 
one  according  to  what  happened  to  be  the  need  and 
the  taste  of  the  man  who  built  it  And  the  appear- 
ance of  the  sidewalk  and  roadway  will  vary  from  day 
to  day  and  hour  to  hour,  according  to  what  may  be 

31 


A  Guide  to  Pictures 

the  number  and  the  character  of  the  people  and  of 
the  vehicles,  as  they  happen  to  move  or  stand  still. 
Compared  with  that  garden,  the  appearance  of  the 
street  is  haphazard. 

Compare  two  parlors.  One  is  a  medley  of  furni- 
ture and  bric-a-brac,  of  all  sorts  of  sizes  and  shapes 
and  colors,  picked  up  at  auction  sales,  or  in  the 
shops,  each  because  it  happened  to  be  a  bargain  or 
to  strike  a  moment's  whim,  and  then  set  in  the  parlor 
where  there  happened  to  be  room  for  it.  The  other 
parlor,  on  the  contrary,  shows  signs  of  order  and  ar- 
rangement. There  are  fewer  objects  in  it,  and  they 
have  been  carefully  chosen  and  arranged  for  the 
double  purpose  of  making  the  room  comfortable  and 
agreeable  to  the  eye.  It  is  an  illustration  of  good 
tas^te  in  selection  and  arrangement. 

The  haphazard  of  nature  we  enjoy.  But  the  con- 
fusion of  the  parlor  distresses  us,  if  we  have  any 
sense  of  selection  and  arrangement.  This  sense  the 
artist  possesses  in  a  marked  degree,  and  on  it  he 
bases  the  making  of  his  picture. 

We  have  already  noticed  how  he  selects,  but  may 
have  to  mention  it  again  in  describing  how  he  ar- 
ranges, since  the  two  acts  are  mixed  up  together,  as 
when  you  select  some  flowers  and  then  arrange  them 
in  a  vase. 

When  we  first  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  artist 
in  the  previous  chapter,  he  had  already,  you  will  re- 
member, "  roughed  in  "  with  his  charcoal  the  objects 
he  was  going  to  paint.  We  were  so  interested  in 
what  he  had  selected,  that  we  paid  little  attention  to 

32 


ISTature  is  Haphazard:  Art  is  Arrangement 

the  arrangement  of  the  objects.  It  is  this  that  we 
are  now  going  to  study. 

His  canvas  is  on  the  easel,  its  bare  white  surface 
inclosed  within  the  four  sides.  He  is  going  to  fill 
this  space,  not  only  for  the  purpose  of  suggesting  to 
us  the  appearance  of  the  scene  he  has  selected,  but 
in  such  a  way  that  the  actual  arrangement  of  the 
objects — the  pattern  which  they  make  upon  the  can- 
vas— shall  give  us  pleasure.  This  he  calls  his  compo- 
sition. The  word,  as  you  know,  if  you  have  studied 
Latin,  means  simply  "  putting "  or  "  placing  to- 
gether." But,  as  the  artist  uses  it,  it  always  means 
that  the  placing  together  shall  produce  an  effect  that 
is  pleasing  to  the  eye.  It  is  only  when  it  does,  that 
the  result  can  properly  be  called  a  work  of  art.  For 
you  will  recall  what  we  said  in  the  first  chapter,  that 
the  artist  is  one  who  fits  his  conception  with  a  beau- 
tiful form.  And  this  form  is  his  composition. 

Now,  before  we  go  any  farther  with  the  artist's 
method  of  composition,  let  me  invite  you  to  do  a  little 
composing  on  your  own  account.  That  wall  in  your 
special  room  or  den  where  you  hang  your  favorite 
photographs — how  is  it  arranged?  Are  the  photo- 
graphs pinned  up  higgledy-piggledy,  so  as  to  crowd 
as  many  as  possible  on  the  wall  ?  Is  your  only  idea 
just  to  hang  them  up  where  you  can  see  them  ?  Or 
have  you  placed  them  together  in  such  a  way  that 
their  actual  arrangement,  as  they  spot  the  open  space 
of  your  wall,  is  agreeable  to  your  eye?  For,  in  a 
way,  your  wall,  before  you  hung  the  photographs, 
was  like  the  bare  canvas  of  the  artist.  The  four 

33 


A  Guide  to  Pictures 

edges  inclosed  it;  the  space  is  yours  to  do  with  it 
what  you  wish. 

Suppose,  now,  that  you  are  starting  with  the  wall 
bare.  Your  family  has  moved  into  a  new  house,  or 
the  old  one  is  being  repaired.  There  is  your  plaster 
wall,  as  white  as  the  artist's  canvas.  You  are  al- 
lowed to  decide  what  shall  be  done  with  it.  What 
will  you  do  with  it? 

Oh !  you  are  going  to  choose  a  paper.  Well,  what 
shall  it  be  ?  Yes,  pretty,  of  course.  But  pretty  by 
itself,  or  when  your  pictures  are  hung  ?  For,  if  you 
choose  a  paper  with  a  large  pattern  of  many  bright 
colors,  it  may  interfere  with  the  effect  of  the  pic- 
tures. You  don't  wish  to  do  this  ?  Then  it  will  be 
well  to  choose  a  paper  that  is  not  too  prominent ;  one 
that  has  a  small  pattern,  or  none  at  all,  only  a  single 
tint.  Some  people  prefer  a  neutral  tint ;  one,  that  is 
to  say,  which  is  neither  one  thing  nor  the  other ;  not 
very  green,  or  blue,  or  red,  or  yellow,  but  rather  so ; 
some  color  that  is  difficult  to  define.  For,  because 
this  paper  does  not  attract  particular  attention,  it  al- 
lows the  photographs,  hung  upon  it,  to  show  up  more 
prominently. 

However,  the  papering  is  your  affair,  and  you 
have  made  your  selection.  At  last  the  workmen, 
their  ladders,  their  paste  pots,  and  shavings  are 
cleared  out  of  the  room  and  you  can  begin  to  arrange 
it.  You  have  placed  the  furniture  where  it  best  fits 
in,  looks  best,  and  seems  most  comfortable,  and  now 
you  turn  your  attention  to  each  of  the  four  walls. 
Once  more,  is  the  placing  of  the  photographs  to  be 

34 


Nature  is  Haphazard:  Art  is  Arrangement 

higgledy-piggledy,  "  any-old-how,"  just  to  show 
them,  or  are  you  going  to  arrange  them  carefully,  so 
as  to  make  each  wall  a  pleasing  composition  ? 

We  will  suppose  you  decide  upon  the  latter  plan. 
How  will  you  proceed  ?  I  can  imagine  you  choosing 
one  of  two  ways. 

Either  you  will  select  your  biggest  picture,  or  the 
one  you  prize  most,  and  place  it  in  the  middle  of  the 
wall,  and  then  place  the  others  on  each  side  of  it,  so 
as  to  balance  one  another.  Or,  you  will  feel  that 
such  an  arrangement  would  be  too  stiff  and  formal, 
too  obviously  balanced,  and  will  sprinkle  the  pictures 
over  the  wall  space,  so  that  their  arrangement  is  ir- 
regular and  looks  as  if  it  were  accidental,  and  yet 
seems  balanced.  For,  if  you  are  trying  to  arrange 
your  pictures  in  the  way  in  which  they  seem  to  you  to 
look  best,  consciously  or  unconsciously  you  are  work- 
ing to  secure  a  balance. 

Yes,  one  of  the  principles  of  artistic  composition 
is  balance.  Like  all  the  principles,  adapted  by  ar- 
tists, it  is  founded  on  an  instinct  of  human  nature. 
Have  you  ever  noticed  that  when  a  man  carries  a 
bucket  of  water,  he  holds  the  free  arm  away  from  his 
body?  He  does  it  by  instinct,  to  offset  the  drag  of 
the  bucket  on  his  other  arm  and  to  balance  his  body. 
Have  you  ever  walked  upon  the  steel  rail  of  a  rail- 
road track  ?  Most  of  us  have,  I  imagine.  We  tread 
pretty  firmly  for  a  little  while,  and  then  we  totter. 
Out  go  our  arms  immediately  to  restore  our  balance. 
We  walk  up  and  down  the  deck  of  an  ocean  liner, 
when  the  sea  is  rough,  and  slope  our  bodies  to  the 

35 


A  Guide  to  Pictures 

movement  of  the  vessel.  Why?  To  keep  our  bal- 
ance. If  we  lose  it  we  are  hurled  across  the  deck  in 
a  very  undignified  fashion.  On  the  contrary,  what 
a  beautiful  spectacle  is  presented  when  a  good 
skater  balances  backward  and  forward;  perhaps  an 
even  more  beautiful  one,  when  a  good  dancer  who 
feels  the  joy  of  movement  sways  to  the  rhythm  of  the 
music. 

So,  to  maintain  a  balance  is  an  instinct  of  human 
nature ;  to  lose  it  produces  ugly  results ;  while  beau- 
tiful ones  may  be  secured  from  it,  especially  if  the 
balance  is  rhythmic. 

^v  Another  principle,  then,  of  artistic  composition  is 
/  rhythm,  and  this,  too,  is  founded  on  an  instinct  of 
I  human  nature.  Let  us  see  what  rhythm  is.  A  small 
boy  has  found  an  old  pot,  catches  up  a  stick,  and  be- 
gins to  belabor  the  pot  and  make  himself  a  nuisance. 
By  and  by  he  gets  tired  of  his  own  noise,  imagines 
his  pot  a  drum,  and  hits  it  with  rhythmic  strokes, 
one  following  the  other  in  measured  beats.  Watch 
how  his  legs  begin  to  move  to  the  time  of  the  strokes, 
and  how  the  other  youngsters  fall  in  behind  him. 
Left,  right,  left,  right,  on  they  march ;  their  legs  and 
shoulders  swinging  to  the  rhythmic  beat.  I  wonder 
if  they  know  they  are  following  an  instinct,  pretty 
nearly  as  old  as  humanity.  Probably  they  don't, 
and  wouldn't  care  if  they  did.  All  they  know  is  that 
they  are  having  a  good  time.  That's  just  it!  And 
they  are  having  the  same  sort  of  good  time  that  the 
primitive  man  gave  his  friends,  when  he  first  hit  on 
the  idea  of  clapping  his  hands  together  in  rhythm* 

36 


Nature  is  Haphazard:  Art  is  Arrangement 

Later  on  he  found  he  could  get  more  stirring  effects 
and  save  his  hands  by  rhythmic  hammering  of  one 
piece  of  wood  upon  another.  Then  came  along  a 
primitive  Edison  who  perfected  the  principle  and  put 
'  tom-toms  on  the  market.  And  so,  in  time,  music 
came  to  he  invented.  For  the  hasis  of  music  and  of 
the  pleasure  that  is  received  from  it  is  its  measured 
beat  or  rhythm. 

It  is,  however,  not  only  from  the  actual  measured 
beat,  appealing  to  our  ear,  that  we  gain  pleasure,  but 
also  from  the  suggestion  of  rhythm  to  our  sense  of 
sight. 

A  man  stone  deaf  can  enjoy  watching  a  dance. 
He  has  never  heard  a  sound  in  his  life,  but  his  sense 
of  sight  is  stirred  to  pleasure  by  the  spectacle  of 
measured  repetition  of  the  movements.  Similarly, 
the  measured  repetitions  of  stationary  objects  gives 
us  pleasure,- — the  measured  repetition,  for  example, 
presented  by  the  West  Point  cadets,  as  they  suddenly 
halt,  either  in  close  formation  or  in  open  ranks. 
"  How  beautiful !  "  we  exclaim.  And  it  is  because 
the  Athenians  realized  the  beauty  of  measured  repe- 
tition and  the  pleasure  that  it  gives  to  the  sense  of 
sight,  that  they  surrounded  their  great  temple,  the 
Parthenon,  with  ranks  of  columns,  arranged  at  equal 
distance  from  one  another.  For,  though  they  may 
have  learned  the  beauty  of  repetition  from  studying 
the  tree  stems  in  the  woods,  yet,  when  they  built  their 
work  of  art,  they  avoided  the  haphazard  of  nature, 
and  introduced  order  and  arrangement  by  making 
the  repetitions  measured. 

37 


A  Guide  to  Pictures 

Behind  the  columns,  however,  high  up  on  the  out- 
side of  the  temple  wall  they  set  a  frieze  or  hand  of 
figures.  It  extended  clear  around  the  temple,  rep- 
resenting a  procession  of  people  on  their  way  to  the 
great  festival  of  the  goddess  Athene.  The  remains 
are  now  in  the  British  Museum;  hut,  doubtless,  you 
have  seen  casts  of  portions  of  it,  and  will  recall  some 
in  which  young  men  are  riding,  the  head  of  each 
horse  overlapping  the  body  of  the  one  in  front  of  it. 
There  is  here  no  longer  an  actual  measured  repeti- 
tion, as  in  the  case  of  the  columns.  The  bodies  are 
not  separated  by  exact  intervals,  nor  do  they  repeat 
the  same  forms.  The  youths  differ,  so  do  the  horses, 
and  the  actions  of  the  forms  are  dissimilar.  And  yet 
the  arching  of  the  horses'  necks,  the  prancing  of  the 
forelegs,  and  the  bodies  of  the  youths  swaying  to  the 
movement  of  the  horses  are  so  arranged,  that  there 
is  no  break  or  interruption  or  confusion,  but  the 
whole  seems  to  flow  up  and  down  regularly.  There 
are  no  actual,  measured  intervals  or  actual  repeti- 
tions, yet  the  feeling  of  both  is  suggested.  The  ar- 
rangement of  the  forms  is  rhythmic,  in  that  it  sug- 
gests rhythm.  And  the  principle  of  this  also  the 
Greeks  found  in  nature,  as  you  may,  if  you  watch 
the  waves  rolling  shoreward. 

But  all  this  while  the  artist's  canvas  is  standing 
white  and  bare  upon  the  easel,  and  must  continue 
to  stand.  For,  when  he  gets  to  work,  I  want  you,  not 
only  to  see  what  he  does,  but  feel  the  meaning  of  his 
intention.  And  we  can  best  enter  into  another  per- 
son's feeling,  if  we  have  experienced  something  of  his 

38 


Nature  is  Haphazard:  Art  is  Arrangement 

feeling  in  ourselves.  So,  I  have  rummaged  among 
our  own  experiences,  in  order  to  make  you  feel  how 
much  we  have  in  common  with  the  artist.  He  and 
ourselves  are  creatures  of  like  nature,  with  similar 
senses,  similar  sources  of  pleasure  and  pain,  and 
similar  instincts  leading  us  to  do  and  to  like  similar 
things.  Only  the  artist  has  keener  senses,  and  has 
cultivated  his  instincts  and  study  of  nature,  and  has 
drawn  from  them  certain  practical  hints  to  help  him 
create  his  work  of  art. 

Among  the  instincts  that  we  share  with  him  are, 
as  I  have  tried  to  show — first,  an  instinctive  prefer- 
ence for  order  and  arrangement;  secondly,  the  need 
of  balance  and  the  pleasure  we  receive  from  it; 
thirdly,  the  increased  pleasure  we  derive  from  bal- 
ance, when  it  is  accompanied  with  rhythmic  repeti- 
tions. These  are  the  principles  on  which  he  relies 
when  he  makes  his  composition.  For  let  me  repeat, 
and  not  for  the  last  time,  that  the  purpose  of  his  com- 
position is  not  only  to  suggest  some  scene  of  nature, 
but  to  make  the  composition  itself  a  source  of  pleas- 
ure to  our  sense  of  sight. 


39 


CHAPTEE  IV 
CONTRAST 

IN  the  previous  chapter  we  discussed  balance  and 
repetition  as  elements  of  composition.  We  have 
now  to  study  another  element — that  of  contrast. 
This  also  results  from  a  natural  love  of  change  and 
variety.  How  sick  we  should  get  of  candy,  if  we  had 
nothing  else  to  eat!  how  tired  of  sunshine,  if  there 
were  never  a  cold  or  wet  day  to  make  the  sun  seem 
extra  beautiful  by  contrast !  "  Jack/'  as  we  know, 
"  will  become  a  dull  boy,"  if  his  studies  are  not  en- 
livened by  play;  but  how  worse  than  dull — stupid 
and  ill-tempered — if  his  play  were  not  relieved  by 
something  serious.  Yes,  contrast  is  the  salt  of  life, 
without  which  living  would  be  tasteless  and  insipid. 
More  than  this,  I  can  hardly  believe  that  a  boy  or 
girl  can  grow  up  to  be  brave  and  true,  a  really  fine 
specimen  of  manhood  or  womanhood,  unless  some 
shadow  of  hardship  and  pain  has  passed  over  the 
sunny  period  of  youth.  We  have  to  learn  to  take  the 
bitter  with  the  sweet,  and.it  is  through  meeting  each, 
as  it  comes  along,  as  a  part  of  the  day's  work,  that  we 
gradually  build  up  character. 

So  contrast,  it  seems,  serves  two  purposes  in  life 
— it  adds  to  the  pleasure  of  life,  and  it  gives  force 

40 


Contrast 

and  worth  to  character.  Its  effects  in  art  are  very 
similar.  The  artist  employs  it  to  give  variety  and  at 
the  same  time  character  and  distinction  to  the  pat- 
tern of  his  compositions. 

You  can  find  out  for  yourselves  how  he  does  this, 
if  you  take  a  piece  of  paper,  a  pencil,  a  pair  of  com- 
passes, and  a  straight-edge.  First  draw  a  rectangle. 
This  is  the  space  to  be  filled  or  developed  into  a  com- 
position. Now  draw  a  vertical  line  up  the  center  of 
it.  You  will  admit  that  this  is  not  interesting  by 
itself;  but  cut  it  at  right  angles  with  a  horizontal 
line,  and  immediately  the  figure  begins  to  have  some  • 
character.  Immediately,  also,  if  you  have  any  eye 
for  balance — and  almost  everybody  has — you  will  be- 
gin to  notice  that  it  makes  a  great  difference  at  just 
what  point  the  horizontal  line  cuts  the  vertical.  In 
the  first  place,  whether  the  arms  of  the  horizontal  are 
or  are  not  the  same  length — then,  at  how  high  or  how 
low  a  point  on  the  vertical  line  they  branch  out. 
You  can  experiment  with  these  two  lines  until  the 
cross  seems  to  you  to  look  its  best. 

You  could  not  draw  anything  much  simpler  than 
this  figure;  and  yet  it  is  sufficient  to  illustrate  two 
principles  of  contrast  in  composition — first,  that  the 
contrast  is  interesting,  and  second,  that  it  is  made 
more  interesting,  when  the  contrasted  parts  are  care- 
fully balanced.  Now  take  the  compasses  and,  cen- 
tering on  the  point  of  intersection  of  the  two  lines, 
describe  a  circle.  The  latter  will  introduce  into  the 
figure  a  still  further  contrast  between  curved  and 
straight  lines.  And  again  your  sense  of  balance  will 

41 


A  Guide  to  Pictures 

be  brought  into  play.  How  far  will  you  make  your 
circle  extend  ?  It  is  for  you  to  say,  because  you  are 
trying  to  satisfy  your  own  feeling  for  what  will  look 
best  Now,  as  a  contrast  to  this  circle,  add  four 
smaller  ones  at  the  extremities  of  the  cross.  Next, 
from  the  center  of  the  big  circle  draw  radiating  lines. 
As  a  last  touch  of  contrast,  suppose  you  draw  a  seg- 
ment of  a  circle  in  each  of  the  four  corners  of  the 
rectangle. 

By  this  time  we  have  built  up  a  composition,  the 
pattern  of  which  consists  of  contrasts.  But,  as  I 
dare  say  you  have  noticed,  it  also  consists  of  repeti- 
tions. And  once  more  I  will  remind  you  that  both 
the  repetitions  and  the  contrasts  are  balanced.  Con- 
trast, repetition,  and  balance — these  are  the  simple 
elements  of  composition. 

Our  pattern  or  composition  is  a  very  simple  form 
of  geometric  figure.  If  you  feel  disposed,  you  can 
amuse  yourself  by  devising  other  kinds  of  simple  pat- 
terns ;  starting,  for  example,  with  a  circle  inside  your 
rectangular  space;  or,  selecting,  to  begin  with,  a  cir- 
cular frame  and  starting  with  a  triangle  or  square 
inside  of  it,  and  in  either  case  continuing  to  build  up 
or  embroider  your  design  with  additional  features. 
In  this  way  by  varying  the  shape  of  your  original 
frame  and  the  character  of  the  pattern  that  you  put 
in  it,  you  can  go  on  indefinitely  inventing  designs. 
All  these,  I  want  you  to  observe,  are  geometric  in 
character.  They  are  based  upon  the  figures  which 
you  find  in  geometry — the  square,  rectangle,  tri- 
angle, and  circle. 

42 


Contrast 

just  as  the  acorn  may  in  time  become  the 
great  oak  tree,  so  this  simple  basis  of  geometric  de- 
sign is  at  the  root  of  the  compositions  of  the  great 
Italian  pictures  and  of  thousands  of  other  pictures, 
even  to  our  own  day.  Their  compositions  are  based 
upon  a  geometric  plan.  The  only  difference  is  that 
your  plan  is  clearly  visible,  -while  theirs  is  more  or 
less  disguised.  The  reason  is  that  they  do  not  fill 
their  spaces,  as  you  did,  with  simple  lines,  but  with 
forms — figures,  columns,  buildings,  draperies,  trees, 
hills,  and  so  on.  Consequently,  when  we  speak  of 
the  "lines"  of  their  compositions,  we  often  mean 
rather  the  direction  which  the  figure,  or  the  object 
whatever  it  may  be,  takes.  Thus,  a  standing  figure 
may  take  the  place  of  your  vertical  line ;  the  slightly 
undulating  top  of  the  hills  behind  it  may  correspond 
to  your  horizontal  line;  a  curving  group  of  angels, 
floating  in  the  air,  may  suggest  your  circle;  while 
your  diagonal  line  may  be  replaced  in  the  picture  by 
the  branches  of  a  tree  that  spread  in  a  diagonal  di- 
rection. In  other  words,  what  you  have  done  (shall 
I  say  ?)  stiffly  with  compasses  and  straight-edge,  the 
artists  do  freely  and  loosely.  Yet,  I  repeat  it,  under- 
neath this  seeming  freedom,  if  you  search  for  it,  you 
will  find  the  basis  of  a  geometric  design.  This  I 
hope  to  show  you  in  the  following  chapter.  Mean- 
while, there  is  another  use  for  contrast  that  you 
should  know. 

It  is  the  contrast  between  the  light  and  the  dark 
parts  of  a  picture.  It  is  employed,  in  the  first  place, 
to  make  the  objects  in  the  picture  look  more  real.  If 


A  Guide  to  Pictures 

you  fix  your  eyes  on  any  object  in  the  room  or  out 
of  doors,  you  will  observe  that  some  parts  of  it  are 
light  and  some  dark,  and  that  there  are  various  de- 
grees of  lightness  and  darkness.  It  is  the  light  on 
an  object  that  enables  us  to  see  it.  If  there  were  no 
light  on  it — if  it  were  in  complete  darkness,  that  is 
to  say — nothing  would  be  visible.  And,  while  it  is 
the  light  that  enables  us  to  see  the  object,  it  is  the 
degree  of  light  on  some  parts  of  it  and  the  various 
degrees  of  darkness  on  others  that  enable  us  to  real- 
ize the  shape  of  it.  In  other  words,  the  contrast  of 
light  and  dark,  received  by  the  eyes,  communicates  to 
our  brain  the  sense  of  form  and  bulk. 

That  it  should  do  so  seems  to  be  the  gradual  result 
of  a  habit,  unconsciously  acquired.  Those  who  study 
such  things  tell  us  that  we  began  to  perceive  things, 
not  through  the  sense  of  sight,  but  by  the  sense  of 
touch.  The  baby  reaches  out  its  little  hand  to  feel 
for  the  mother's  breast;  it  burrows  its  way  to  her 
warm  body;  is  comforted  by  the  feel  of  her  arms 
around  it.  When  the  child  is  older  and  you  present 
her  with  a  doll,  you  may  be  disappointed  that  she  does 
not  at  once  show  pleasure.  Instead  of  her  face  light- 
ing up  with  joy,  as  you  hoped  it  would,  she  stares  at 
the  doll  in  rather  a  dull  way.  But  presently  she 
stretches  out  her  hands,  and  takes  the  doll  into 
them  and  begins  to  feel  it  all  over,  and  at  length 
clasps  it  in  her  arms  against  her  body.  It  is  by  the 
sense  of  touch  that  she  seems  to  have  assured  herself 
that  the  doll  is  "  real."  When  she  is  older,  however, 
if  you  offer  her  a  new  doll,  immediately  her  face 

44 


Contrast 

lightens  with  gladness  of  welcome.  For,  in  the 
meantime  she  has  learned  to  know  a  doll  by  sight, 
and  now  when  she  gets  it  into  her  hands  she  turns  it 
round  and  round  that  she  may  look  at  it,  patting  the 
face,  however,  and  the  dress,  and  lifting  up  the  lace 
of  the  petticoats  and  handling  the  sash,  because,  al- 
though she  has  grown  to  recognize  things  by  her  sense 
of  sight,  she  has  not  lost  her  delight  in  the  sense  of 
touch.  !Nor  will  she,  I  hope,  as  she  grows  older.  In- 
deed, artists,  knowing  how  much  pleasure  people  de- 
rive from  the  feel  of  things,  take  great  pains,  as  we 
shall  see  in  another  chapter,  to  paint  the  surfaces, 
or,  as  they  suggest  it,  the  texture  of  objects,  in  such  a 
way  as  to  make  us  feel  how  pleasant  it  would  be  to 
touch  them.  Besides,  it  makes  the  figure  seem  so 
much  more  real,  if  they  suggest  to  us  that,  if  we 
touched  the  face,  it  would  feel  like  flesh;  or,  if  we 
could  pass  our  hand  over  the  dress,  it  would  seem 
soft  and  mossy  like  velvet,  or  smooth  and  polished 
like  satin. 

But,  to  return  to  the  contrast  of  light  and  dark. 
Although  it  is  by  this  contrast  that  we  get  an  impres- 
sion of  the  form  or  bulk  of  an  object,  most  people 
are  not  aware  of  the  fact.  They  have  grown  up  in 
the  habit  of  recognizing  things  by  sight,  without 
being  conscious  of  how  they  do  so.  They  just  see 
things.  Artists,  however,  have  had  to  learn  the  rea- 
son and  how  to  apply  it  to  painting. 

The  history  of  modern  painting  extends  back 
about  six  hundred  years.  In  the  thirteenth  century, 

45 


A  Guide  to  Pictures 

the  paintings  which  decorated  some  of  the  churches 
in  Italy  were  painted  in  what  is  called  a  conventional 
way.  That  is  to  say,  a  certain  custom  was  followed 
by  all  the  painters.  They  represented  the  heads  and 
hands  of  their  figures,  but  the  bodies  were  covered 
with  draperies,  under  which  there  was  little  or  no 
suggestion  of  any  form  or  bulk.  [For  the  whole 
figure  appeared  flat.  It  was  as  if  you  should  make 
a  little  figure  of  clay  or  paste,  and  then  pass  a  roller 
over  it,  until  its  thickness  is  flattened  down  into  noth- 
ing but  length  and  breadth.  The  figures,  in  fact, 
gave  no  appearance  of  being  real  and  lifelike  because, 
as  artists  would  say,  there  was  no  drawing  in  them. 
There  was  nothing  to  suggest  that  the  figures  had 
real  bodies. 

By  degrees,  however,  people  grew  tired  of  these 
unlifelike  figures,  and  a  painter  named  Giotto 
(1266  ?-1337)  became  the  leader  of  a  new  motive 
in  painting.  It  was  simply  to  try  and  make  the  fig- 
ures look  real  and  the  scenes  in  which  they  appeared 
seem  natural.  Instead  of  following  a  convention, 
he  used  his  eyes  and  studied  nature.  He  was  no 
longer  satisfied  to  fill  in  the  background  of  his  pic- 
ture with  a  flat  gold  tint  as  the  conventional  paint- 
ers had  done.  He  wished  to  increase  the  reality  of 
his  figures  by  representing  them  in  real  surround- 
ings, sometimes  in  a  room,  sometimes  out  of  doors. 
Instead  of  being  content  to  make  his  pictures  flat, 
representing  only  length  and  breadth,  he  set  to  work 
to  create  the  suggestion  of  the  third  dimension — 
depth.  He  would  try  and  make  you  feel  that  you 

46 


Contrast 

could  walk  from  the  foreground  of  his  picture,  step 
by  step,  through  to  the  background ;  and  that,  as  you 
reached  each  figure  or  object  in  the  scene,  you  could 
pass  your  hand  round  it  and  feel  that  it  had  real 
bulk.  I  said  "  step  by  step  "  and  I  lay  stress  on  it. 
For  what  Giotto  tried  to  represent  was  not  merely 
some  figures  in  front  and  then  a  big  gap  that  you  had 
to  jump  over  before  you  reached  the  background,  but 
what  the  artists  call  the  "  successive  planes  "  of  the 
scene — the  step-by-step  appearance  of  the  scene. 

Perhaps  you  will  grasp  better  what  this  means  if, 
when  you  next  go  to  the  theater,  you  carefully  ob- 
serve the  scenery,  representing  some  outdoor  effect 
On  each  side  of  the  stage,  very  likely  representing 
tree  trunks,  there  is  a  series  of  "  wings,"  one  behind 
another  at  a  distance  of  say  five  feet,  while  across 
the  stage,  hanging  down  from  the  "  flies,"  is  a  series 
of  cut  cloths,  representing  foliage,  that  correspond 
with  the  wings  and  seem  to  be  branches  of  the  tree 
trunks.  Well,  these  cloths  and  their  wings  corre- 
spond to  the  "  successive  planes  "  of  a  picture.  They 
lead  gradually  back  and  you  can  actually  walk  in 
and  out  of  them.  But,  when  you  reach  the  back 
cloth,  you  are  stopped,  so  far  as  your  legs  are  con- 
cerned. If  you  are  sitting  in  the  auditorium,  how- 
ever, your  eye  goes  traveling  on  and  on  a  long 
distance,  for  the  back  cloth  is  itself  a  picture,  in 
which  there  is  an  illusion  of  successive  planes. 

The  artist's  word  for  representing  the  successive 
planes  is  perspective.  If  you  stand  between  the  rails 
of  a  trolley  line  or  railroad  and  look  along  it,  the 

47 


A  Guide  to  Pictures 

lines  seem  to  draw  together  or  converge.  Yet  in  re- 
ality you  know  that  they  are  equidistant  from  each 
other  all  the  way  along.  But,  since  our  power  of  see- 
ing becomes  less  and  less  as  objects  are  farther  re- 
moved from  us,  so  to  our  diminishing  sight  the  size 
and  distinctness  of  the  space  between  the  rails  ap- 
pears also  to  diminish.  In  the  same  way  you  will 
observe  that  the  width  of  the  street  seems  to  dimin- 
ish, and  the  people  and  wagons  appear  smaller  and 
smaller,  according  as  they  are  seen  farther  and  far- 
ther back  in  the  successive  planes.  The  houses,  too 
— you  know  that  if  you  stood  in  front  of  any  of  the 
houses,  exactly  facing  it,  the  upright  sides  would 
appear  to  be,  as  they  are,  of  equal  height,  and  that 
the  windows  and  cornice  would  appear  in  parallel 
horizontal  lines.  Yet,  as  you  stand  in  the  street 
and  look  along  the  houses  on%either  side,  they  pre- 
sent a  different  apppearance.  In  the  case  of  each 
house  the  upright  side,  nearer  to  you,  seems  higher 
than  the  one  farther  off,  and  the  rows  of  windows 
and  the  line  of  the  cornice  appear  to  slope  downward. 
For  the  houses  as  they  take  their  places  in  the  reced- 
ing or  successive  planes  seem  to  diminish  in  size. 

This,  you  see,  is  another  example  of  what  we  have 
already  said,  that  the  artist  does  not  paint  what  he 
knows  to  be  facts,  but  the  appearances,  as  he  sees 
them  from  the  point  where  his  eyes  are — his  "  point 
of  sight."  You  remember  how  in  an  earlier  chapter 
that  artist  represented,  or  rather  suggested  the  cows 
in  the  distance  by  a  few  dabs.  That  was  how  he  saw 
them  from  his  point  of  sight  I  could  not  tell  you 

48 


•4 


Contrast 

then,  but  you  will  understand  now,  that  he  was  obey- 
ing the  law  of  perspective,  and  was  representing  the 
cows  as  they  appeared  in  their  own  proper  plane  of 
the  scene.  Do  you  remember  that  when  he  drew  in 
their  horns  and  tails  and  other  details,  they  looked 
like  toy  cows  ?  We  can  now  see  why.  They  contra- 
dicted their  surroundings;  they  no  longer  were  at 
home  in  their  own  plane ;  their  plane  was  a  good  way 
off,  but  they  were  represented  as  if  close  to  our  eyes ; 
and,  as  we  saw  how  small  they  were,  they  seemed  to 
us  like  toy  cows. 

You  see,  it  is  entirely  a  matter  of  how  things  look 
to  the  eyes.  The  painter,  as  I  have  said,  does  not 
represent  the  facts  as  he  knows  them  to  be,  but  the 
impressions  which  the  facts  make  upon  his  eyesight ; 
and  these  impressions,  by  the  way  in  which  he  ren- 
ders them,  he  hands  on  to  us.  His  picture  is  not 
nature,  but  a  suggestion  or  illusion  of  nature. 

Now,  although  Giotto  had  dicovered  that,  to  make 
you  feel  that  you  could  walk  back  through  his  pic- 
tures, he  must  represent  the  successive  planes,  he 
only  partly  found  out  how  to  do  it.  It  was  not  until 
nearly  a  hundred  years  later  that  a  painter  named 
Masaccio  learned  how  to  fill  the  whole  of  his  pic- 
ture with  a  suggestion  of  atmosphere,  so  that  the  ob- 
jects took  their  places  properly  in  their  proper 
planes,  and  it  was  still  later  before  artists  thoroughly 
worked  out  the  methods  of  perspective. 

The  greatest  difficulty  that  they  had  to  surmount 
was  how  to  "  foreshorten  "  their  figures,  or  represent 
them  in  "  foreshortening."  A  simple  way  of  under- 

49 


A  Guide  to  Pictures 

standing  what  this  means  is  to  stand  in  front  of  a 
mirror  and  stretch  out  your  arms  to  left  and  right, 
like  the  arms  of  a  cross.  Each  extends  a  long  way. 
But  now  bring  them  in  front  of  you  and  stretch 
them  toward  the  mirror.  At  once  they  look  shorter, 
or  at  any  rate  you  cannot  see  their  length.  They  ap- 
pear foreshortened.  Or  you  may  practice  a  still 
more  "  violent "  example  of  foreshortening,  if  you 
are  able  to  place  the  mirror  where  you  can  see  your 
body,  when  lying  down  with  the  feet  toward  it,  for 
now  the  whole  length  of  the  body  appears  foreshort- 
ened in  the  mirror.  The  surface  of  the  latter,  you 
observe,  corresponds  exactly  with  the  surface  of  a 
picture.  It  is  a  flat  plane  upon  which  is  produced 
the  appearance  of  successive  or  receding  planes,  and 
though  you  cannot  see  the  length  of  your  body  be- 
cause it  is  foreshortened,  you  are  made  to  feel  its 
length. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  artists  overcame  the  dif- 
ficulty of  representing  this  effect;  and  the  first 
pictures  in  which  it  was  accomplished  were  naturally 
regarded  as  wonders.  Since  it  is  not  the  purpose  of 
this  book  to  teach  you  to  draw  I  will  mention  only 
one  of  the  principles  involved.  It  is  the  one  we  have 
already  been  discussing — the  contrast  of  light  and 
dark,  or,  as  it  is  called,  "  chiaroscuro."  Artists  soon 
discovered  that,  if  an  object  has  bulk,  that  part  of  it 
which  is  nearest  to  the  light  will  reflect  most  light; 
the  parts  less  near,  less  light ;  while  the  parts  that  are 
exposed  to  no  light  will  appear  dark.  As  this  was 
how  the  artists  saw  the  objects,  it  was  so  they  tried 

50 


Contrast 

to  represent  them.  They  learned  to  "  model "  the 
object,  that  is  to  say,  to  represent  it  as  having  bulk, 
by  reproducing  in  their  pictures  the  contrasts  of  light 
and  dark.  At  first  the  contrasts  were  crude,  chiefly 
of  the  very  light  and  very  dark,  but  by  degrees  the 
artists  became  more  skillful  and  learned  to  represent 
also  all  the  varying  gradations  of  less  light  and  less 
dark.  By  this  time  they  were  better  able  to  sur- 
mount the  difficulty  of  foreshortening. 

You  will  see  how,  if  you  will  again  stand  in  front 
of  the  mirror  and  stretch  out  one  arm  toward  it. 
The  simplest  test  is  made,  if  you  can  arrange  that 
the  light  shall  be  directly  at  your  back,  for  then  it  is 
reflected  by  the  mirror  on  to  the  front  of  you.  In 
this  case  you  will  notice  that  your  outstretched  hand 
receives  the  most  light,  because  it  is  nearest  to  the 
light  If  it  were  represented  in  this  way  in  a  pic- 
ture, our  habit  of  seeing  the  highest  or  brightest  light 
on  the  highest  or  most  directly  exposed  surface  of  an 
object  would  make  us  feel  that  the  hand  projected  in 
front  of  the  body. 

If,  however,  you  stand  before  the  mirror  with  light 
falling  upon  you  from  one  side,  the  picture  in  the 
mirror  will  be  quite  different  in  appearance.  The 
light  and  shadow  will  be  more  broken  up  and  diver- 
sified. Some  part  of  your  hand,  it  may  be  simply 
the  edges  of  the  fingers,  will  catch  a  high  light,  even 
if  it  is  not  the  highest ;  and  light  probably  will  fall 
on  your  forearm,  between  the  wrist  and  elbow,  and 
again  upon  the  upper  part  of  the  arm.  Broadly 
speaking,  your  arm  presents  three  planes  of  form — 

51 


A  Guide  to  Pictures 

the  hand,  the  forearm,  and  the  upper  arm.  And, 
though  to  your  untrained  eye  the  light  on  all  of  these 
planes  may  seem  the  same,  to  an  artist's  eye  it  would 
vary  according  to  the  angle  at  which  the  light  hits 
the  plane,  or,  as  the  artist  himself  would  say,  accord- 
ing to  the  angle  of  the  plane.  These  angles  vary  all 
over  the  figure,  as  you  may  be  able  to  see  if  you  ex- 
amine your  picture  in  the  mirror.  To  mention  a 
few,  in  a  general  way,  there  are  several  angles 
around  each  of  the  shoulders,  about  the  breast,  round 
the  neck,  while  the  face,  with  its  projecting  nose,  its 
receding  eye  sockets,  its  rounded  cheeks  and  so  on, 
presents  a  regular  patchwork  of  angles  of  plane.  Or 
shall  I  say,  the  whole  figure  presents  a  whole  multi- 
tude of  facets  like  a  cut  diamond  ?  Only,  unlike  the 
diamond,  its  facets  are  uneven  in  size  and  irregular 
in  shape.  And  just  as  the  light  on  the  facets,  here 
very  light  and  elsewhere  not  so  light,  informs  us  of 
the  shape  of  the  diamond,  so  do  these  differently 
lighted  angles  of  plane,  when  presented  in  a  picture, 
give  us  the  suggestion  of  the  figure's  shape. 

And  now  study  the  shadows  in  your  mirror  pic- 
ture. They  result  from  the  opposite  of  what  we  have 
been  talking  about.  In  their  case  the  angles  of  plane 
are  turned  away  from  instead  of  toward  the  light, 
and  some  parts,  such  as  the  hollows  of  the  folds  of 
your  dress  or  coat,  seem  to  catch  no  light  at  all  and 
to  be  quite  dark.  I  expect  you  find  it  much  easier 
to  detect  the  various  gradations  of  dark  or  shadows 
than  those  of  the  light.  And  a  great  many  artists,  es- 
pecially in  olden  times,  seem  to  have  seen  the  shadows 

52 


Contrast 

more  than  the  lights — for  they  represent  the  former 
with  more  subtlety,  that  is  to  say,  with  a  keener  eye 
for  variations,  than  they  do  the  latter.  Indeed,  the 
subtle  rendering  of  light  is  particularly  an  accom- 
plishment of  modern  artists. 

Well,  if  you  have  carefully  studied  your  portrait 
in  the  mirror,  I  think  you  must  have  discovered  how 
large  a  part  the  contrast  of  light  and  shadow  plays 
in  the  appearance  of  the  figure,  and  therefore,  what 
an  equally  important  part  it  plays  in  producing  an 
illusion  of  reality  in  the  picture.  I  do  not  forget 
that  an  artist  by  simply  drawing  an  outline  with  a 
pen  or  pencil  can  also  suggest  to  us  the  appearance 
of  an  object.  But,  if  he  does  so,  it  is  by  the  help  of 
ourselves,  for  he  relies  on  our  imagination  to  supply 
what  he  has  omitted. 

Finally,  before  we  leave  the  mirror  portrait,  I 
should  like  to  ask  you  in  which  of  the  following  ways 
you  see  it:  Do  you  see  it  as  a  bold,  simple  compo- 
sition of  light  and  dark  ?  Or  are  you  conscious  of  a 
hundred  and  one  little  details  about  the  clothes  and 
face  and  hair  and  so  on  ?  The  former  is  what  artists 
call  the  "  broad  "  way  of  seeing  nature.  Many  ar- 
tists see  nature  in  this  way  and  represent  in  a  bold, 
free,  broad  manner  simply  the  big  general  facts. 
Others,  on  the  other  hand,  as  you  may  be,  are  con- 
scious at  once  of  the  great  variety  of  details  of  which 
the  whole  is  composed,  and  represent  the  subject  in 
a  highly  detailed  manner.  Neither  is  the  right  nor 
the  wrong  way.  Thousands  of  fine  pictures  have 
been  painted  in  both  ways.  On  the  other  hand,  if 

53 


A  Guide  to  Pictures 

you  find  you  grow  to  like  one  way  more  than  another, 
it  will  be  because  you  yourself,  as  well  as  the  artist, 
have  the  habit  of  receiving  impressions  in  that  way. 
Do  not  on  that  account  think  other  people  wrong  for 
receiving  impressions  differently  and  therefore  pre- 
ferring the  other  sort  of  picture.  We  cannot  help 
having  preferences,  but  they  shouldn't  prejudice  us 
against  the  preferences  of  others. 


CHAPTEE   V 
GEOMETRIC  COMPOSITION 

IN"  the  previous  chapters  we  talked  about  the  ele- 
ments of  composition.  We  found  that  the  com- 
position or  arrangement  of  figures  and  objects  in 
the  picture  is  designed  by  artists  for  two  purposes: 
Firstly,  to  represent  some  subject;  and,  secondly,  to 
represent  it  in  such  a  way  that  the  arrangement  itself 
will  be  a  source  of  pleasure.  This  second  purpose  is 
what  makes  the  picture  a  work  of  art  And  we  found 
that  the  artist,  in  order  to  make  his  composition 
give  pleasure  to  our  sense  of  sight,  relies  upon  the 
pleasure  that  we  derive  from  repetition  and  contrast, 
and  upon  the  instinct  that  we  all  have  for  keeping 
our  balance.  The  elements  of  composition,  in  fact, 
are  repetition  and  contrast  in  a  state  of  balance, 
sometimes  with  the  added  charm  of  rhythm.  We 
also  found  that  one  way  in  which  artists  contrive  to 
make  this  balance  of  repetition  and  contrast  is  by 
playing,  as  we  may  say,  upon  the  simple  geometrical 
patterns  of  the  rectangle,  triangle,  and  circle. 

Now  let  us  study  an  actual  example,  and  for  the 
purpose  I  have  chosen  Raphael's  Disputd.1     It  is 

1  Pronounced  dees-poo-tah,  with  the  accent  on  the  last  sylla- 
ble.    See  page  13. 

55 


A  Guide  to  Pictures 

painted  on  a  wall  of  one  of  the  "  Stanze  "  or  suite 
of  rooms  in  the  Vatican,  the  home  of  the  Pope,  in 
Rome.  Raphael  painted  many  other  decorations  in 
these  rooms,  but  this  was  his  first  one,  executed  when 
as  a  young  man  of  twenty-five  he  had  been  sum- 
moned from  Florence  to  work  for  the  powerful  pope, 
Julian  II.  Raphael  had  been  a  pupil  of  Perugino, 
and  he  took  one  of  the  geometrical  designs  that  his 
master  had  already  used.  The  pupil,  however,  im- 
proved upon  it. 

Observe,  first,  the  shape  of  the  space  that  Raphael 
was  called  upon  to  decorate.  It  is  known  as  a 
lunette  or  moon-shape.  !Now  it  was  this  space  and 
no  other,  that  for  the  time  being,  he  had  to  decorate. 
What  he  put  into  it,  must  be  suggested  by,  one  may 
almost  say,  must  grow  out  of,  the  particular  shape 
of  this  space.  In  fact,  the  outside  lines  of , the  lu- 
nette, and  the  lines  inside,  must  together  form  the 
pattern  of  the  composition.  Now  observe  how  he  did 
it.  Briefly,  he  put  into  it  a  number  of  curved  lines, 
that  would  repeat  the  curve  of  the  outside,  and  some- 
times also  be  in  contrast  to  it.  Likewise  he  intro- 
duced horizontal  lines,  to  repeat  the  bottom  edge, 
and  vertical  ones  in  contrast  Let  us  examine  it 
more  closely. 

~Not  quite  in  the  center  but  nearly  so,  is  a  small 
circle,  on  which  appears  a  dove.  This  circle  arrests 
our  eye,  and  its  effect  is  to  make  us  feel  very  cer- 
tainly that  part  of  the  composition  is  above  it  and 
part  below.  It  is  repeated  above  by  a  much  la^er 
circle.  This  is  not  completed  j  for  its  regularity  of 

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Geometric  Composition 

shape  is  interrupted  by  the  two  figures,  seated  one 
on  each  side.  The  circle  seems  to  pass  behind  these 
till  it  merges  with  the  clouds  below.  Both  the  small 
and  the  large  circles  repeat  the  outside  curves  of  the 
lunette.  On  the  other  hand  the  curve  of  the  clouds, 
and  the  figures  seated  upon  them  form  a  contrasting 
curve,  and  there'  is  another  one  higher  up, ,  formed 
by  the  two  groups  of  floating  angels.  In  the  center, 
above  the  larger  circle,  is  a  figure  with  a  nimbus 
that  points  up,  carrying  our  eye  toward  an  imagi- 
nary center,  somewhere  outside  the  picture,  from 
which  start  the  radiating  linesv  So  the  impression 
of  that  part  of  the  picture  that  we  have  been  exam- 
ining is  of  uplift.  By  successive  steps  the  eye  and, 
through  it,  the  imagination,  are  invited  to  mount  up. 
And  now  for  the  part  below  the  small  circle,, sepa- 
rated from  what  is  above  by  an  open  space  of  clear 
blue  sky.  Do  you  notice  that  the  band  of  figures 
stretching  across  this  pgrt  takes  the^form  of  a  curve, 
repeating  the  curves  of  the  circles  but  contrasted 
with  the  two  important  curves  of  cloud?  Its  effect 
is  to  prevent  one's  gaze  from  soaring  altogether  up- 
ward. This  downward  curve,  as  it  were,  tethers 
the  composition  to  the  ground  firmly  in  the  two  cor- 
ners. And  now  note  that  the  central  feature  of  this 
lower  part  is  the  altar,  an  equilateral,  in  strongest 
possible  contrast  to  the  curves  and  circles  above  }t. 
That  it  may  have  still  stronger  emphasis,  observe 
how  its  horizontal  lines  are  repeated  down  to  the 
bottom  of  the  picture  by  the  steps,  so  that  the  eye, 
as  it  were,  mounts  the  steps  to  this  central  feature. 

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ITurther  the  equilateral  is  again  enforced  and  also 
"balanced  by  the  vertical  and  horizontal  lines,  form- 
ing a  suggestion  of  equilateral  figures  in  the  corners. 
The  one  on  the  right  is  actually  a  doorway ;  the  black 
part  is  the  door.  Some  artists  might  have  felt  it  was 
a  drawback  to  have  a  bit  thus  cut  out  of  the  picture. 
Not  so  Kaphael.  There,  as  elsewhere  in  these  rooms, 
he  takes  the  doorway  into  his  composition  and  makes 
it  serve  a  very  useful  purpose  of  emphasising  the  cor- 
ner, and  then  invents  another  structure  to  strengthen 
equally  the  corner  opposite. 

Now  note  the  radiating  lines  of  the  pavement.  In 
a  general  way  they  repeat  the  radiation  of  the  lines 
at  the  top  of  the  picture;  but  they  are  farther  apart 
and  bolder,  as  befits  the  bolder  character  of  the  lower 
part.  Have  you  discovered  the  point  from  which 
these  lines  of  the  pavement  radiate?  By  using  a 
straight  edge  to  each  in  turn,  you  will  find  that  all 
the  lines,  if  continued  would  meet  within  the  little 
circle  of  ornament  that  stands  upon  the  altar.  To 
this  point  also  the  gaze  of  many  of  the  figures  is 
directed. 

Some  of  the  figures,  however,  are  standing  so  that 
though  they  gaze  towards  this  center,  the  lines  of 
their  bodies  lead  our  gaze  upward  as  well  as  towards 
the  center.  Then  again,  beside  the  altar  is  a  figure 
with  its  arm  pointing  upward,  so  that  our  eye 
and  imagination  are  not  permitted  to  stop  at  the 
little  circle.  For  Raphael  had  to  bind  the  lower  and 
upper  parts  together  and  make  one  united  composi- 
tion. Very  easily  the  stretch  of  the  sky  might  have 

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Geometric  Composition 

• 

divided  the  whole  into  two  parts.  Lest  it  should, 
he  has  softened  the  contrast  of  the  lower  and  upper 
curves  by  introducing  on  the  one  side  a  building,  on 
the  other  a  low  hill  with  delicate  trees  springing  up- 
ward. 

Now  let  us  pause  for  a  moment,  and  observe  the 
general  effect  of  the  lines,  which  we  can  do  by  turn- 
ing to  the  skeleton  drawing  on  transparent  paper. 
It  lays  bare  the  plan  of  the  composition,  and  we  can 
see  that  it  is  a  geometric  composition  of  repetition  and 
contrasts,  of  horizontal,  vertical,  diagonal  ano^  curved 
lines,  balanced  so_^S-to-unite 


sion.  To  myself  the  impression  is  of  looking  into 
the  interior  of  a  circular  building,  with  a  vaulted 
roof,  vl  remember  just  such  a  building  in  Rome; 
the  Pantheon,  built  in  honor  of  all  the  gods,  but 
now,  as  in  Raphael's  time,  a  temple  of  the  Church. 
As  you  enter  it  an  altar  faces  you  across  the  stretch 
of  pavement,  and  the  lines  of  the  architecture,  as  it 
circles  round  you  and  above  you,  are  very  similar  to 
these  lines,  while  overhead  the  ribs  or  radiating  lines 
of  the  vaulted  ceiling  suddenly  stop,  for  there  is  a 
circular  opening  at  the  top,  through  which  you  can 
see  the  sky,  and  the  light  strikes  down  through  it  in 
diagonal  shafts  of  light. 

I  wonder  if  Raphael  had  the  Pantheon  in  miftd 
when  he  composed  this  picture?  Very  likely,  for 
he  must  have  seen  it;  and  he  had  a  wonderful  gift 
for  receiving  impressions  and  making  use  of  them. 
And  this  building,  both  for  its  unusual  shape  and 
particularly  from  that  wonderful  opening,  carrying 

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one's  imagination  upward  from  finite  space  to  the 
infinite  spaciousness  of  sky,  is  peculiarly  impressive. 
It  fits  in  also  with  the  conception  that  Raphael  seems 
to  have  formed  of  the  subject  which  the  picture 
commemorates. 

For  the  name  of  the  picture  is  misleading.  It  does 
not  represent  a  dispute  or  argument,  as  the  title 
Disputd  would  suggest.  The  real  subject  is  an  al- 
legory of  the  Holy  Catholic  Church — the  Church 
on  Earth  and  the  Church  in  Heaven,  the  Church 
Militant  and  the  Church  Triumphant.  And  it  is  the 
idea  of  the  Church  on  Earth  as  held  by  the  Roman 
Catholic  Church  that  is  represented.  You  may  not 
be  a  Roman  Catholic  yourself,  any  more  than  I  am, 
but  none  the  less  let  us  try  to  enter  reverently  for  a 
few  minutes  into  the  conception  of  the  picture,  since 
it  will  help  us  to  see  how  wonderfully  the  composi- 
tion grows  out  of  the  idea. 

To  the  Roman  Catholic  the  highest  act  of  wor- 
ship is  the  service  of  the  Mass.  Here,  in  conse- 
quence, the^altar^at  which  it  is  celebrated  is  made  the 
most  prominent  feature  of  the  lower  part  of  the 
picture.  It  forms,  as  it  were,  a  keystone  of  the  arch 
of  figures;  the  bishops,  doctors,  and  faithful  of  the 
Church  on  Earth.  Their  worship  is  directed  towards 
thte  altar  on  which  rests  the  receptacle  in  which  the 
Sacred  Bread  is  reserved.  On  earth  the  Church 
reveres  the  Bread  as  the  Body  of  Christ;  a  symbol 
of  the  Body  of  the  risen  Christ  in  Heaven.  Above 
the  altar  hovers  a  dove,  symbol  of  the  Holy  Spirit, 
through  whom  the  Words  of  Holy  Scripture  make 

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Geometric  Composition 

known  the  Glory  of  the  Christ.  The  sacred  books 
are  borne  by  baby  forms,  "  for  of  such  is  the 
Kingdom  of  Heaven."  Above  the  symbol  of  the 
Holy  Spirit,  sits  enthroned  the  Christ,  with  hands 
uplifted,  showing  the  wounds  that  the  nails  made. 
On  one  side  sits  the  Virgin  Mother,  on  the  other, 
John  the  Baptist,  who  prepared  the  way  before  Him ; 
while  to  right  and  left  is  a  row  of  Apostles,  Saints, 
and  Martyrs.  Above  the  circle  of  glory  appears  the 
figure  of  God  the  Father,  with  hands  upraised  in 
blessing.  On  either  side  of  Him  float  angels  and 
the  sky  is  thick  with  baby  faces  of  Cherubs  and 
Seraphs,  singing  "  Hosanna."  Down  through  their 
midst  descend  shafts  of  golden  light  from  the  far  off 
infinite  Sun  of  Righteousness. 

Whether  or  not  Eaphael  had  in  mind  the  Pan- 
theon, his  rendering  of  the  allegory  far  excels  the- 
grandeur  even  of  the  beautiful  temple.  For  his  own 
temple  is  composed  of  earth  and  sky.  "  The  Earth 
is  His  Tabernacle,"  and  the  ceiling  thereof  the  vault 
of  the  Heavens  themselves.  Suspended  in  it  is  the 
vision  of  the  Holy  Trinity,  and  the  throngs  of  the 
heavenly  hosts,  whose  praise  and  adoration  are  the 
mighty  echo  of  the  prayers  and  praises  down  below 
on  earth. 

Thus,  you  see,  with  what  simple  clearness  Raphael 
grasped  the  idea  that  Pope  Julian  II  asked  him  to 
commemorate.  It  is  as  logical  as  a  proposition  in 
geometry,  and  on  simple  principles  of  geometric 
design  he  built  up  the  idea  into  a  picture.  How  the 
simplicity  of  the  idea  has  been  elaborated  with  a 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

yariety  of  beautiful  thoughts,  and  how  the  simplicity 
of  the  design  of  the  structure  has  been  hung,  as  it 
"were,  with  rich  embroideries  of  detail,  I  must  leave 
you  to  search  out  for  yourselves.  If  you  do,  you 
will  find  that  each  figure  represents  some  example 
of  repetition  or  contrast,  each  a  separate  beauty  and 
meaning. 

In  conclusion  I  will  ask  you  one  question.  Do  you 
perceive  the  rhythm  that  prevails  in  this  balance  of 
repetition  and  contrast:  how  from  the  bottom  of 
the  composition  the  successive  waves  of  pattern  flow 
upward,  as  the  thoughts  of  the  Faithful  mount  in 
successive  waves  of  prayer  and  adoration? 


CHAPTER   VI 

GEOMETRIC  COMPOSITION   (Continued) 

HERE  is  another  example  of  geometric  composi- 
tion. It  is  also  by  Raphael  and  is  painted 
on  one  of  the  walls  in  the  same  room  that  the 
Disputd  decorates.  But,  while  the  latter  ?s  geometric 
plan  was  very  noticeable,  this  one  is  more  disguised 
and  the  whole  design  has  a  much  greater  appear- 
ance of  freedom.  It  is  recognised  by  artists  as 
one  of  Raphael's  most  beautiful  compositions,  and 
one  of  the  finest  examples  of  space  decoration  in  ex- 
istence. 

But  before  we  examine  the  plan  on  which  the 
decoration  of  this  space  has  been  built  up,  let  us 
study  the  subject.  It  is  usually  called  Jurisprudence, 
that  is  to  say  the  principle  of  Law — both  the  making 
and  the  administering  of  laws.  In  the  Dispuia, 
the  subject,  as  you  remember,  was  Religion;  in  two 
of  the  other  panels  in  this  same  room  Raphael  has 
represented  Philosophy  and  Poetry.  Here  he  set 
himself  to  represent  the  idea  of  Law.  The  idea,  you 
observe.  In  all  these  four  panels,  it  is  an  idea,  not 
an  event  or  incident,  that  is  represented;  but  an 
idea — something  that  has  existence  only  in  the  mind. 
For  all  the  subjects  represent  abstract  ideas;  ideas, 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

that  is  to  say,  abstracted  or  removed  from  the  ex- 
perience of  the  senses.  We  cannot,  for  example,  see 
religion  or  Law;  nor  touch,  taste,  smell,  nor  hear 
them.  We  can  see  the  policeman  on  his  beat,  or  the 
judge  in  court,  or  the  members  of  the  legislature — 
the  men  who,  respectively,  maintain,  administer,  and 
make  the  laws ;  and  we  can  see  the  record  of  the  laws 
in  books.  But  the  idea  or  principle  of  Law  which 
has  caused  men  to  construct  all  this  machinery  for 
the  making  and  enforcing  of  the  laws,  exists  only 
in  the  mind. 

Therefore,  when  Raphael  was  asked  to  paint  the 
subject  of  Jurisprudence  or  Law,  something  that  no 
one  has  ever  seen  or  will  see,  what  did  he  do?  He 
asked  himself  the  question:  When  people  have  a 
respect  for  Law,  how  does  it  show  itself  in  their 
acts  ?  In  the  first  place  they  are  very  careful  in  the 
making  of  the  laws;  they  found  them  upon  the  ex- 
perience of  the  past  and  shape  them  to  fit  the  needs 
of  the  future ;  they  exhibit  PRUDENCE.  Secondly, 
in  the  enforcing  of  the  laws,  they  exhibit  two  quali- 
ties: FIRMNESS  and  MODERATION.  Though 
they  firmly  uphold  the  law,  they  remember  that 

"  earthly  power  doth  then  show  likest  God's 
When  mercy  seasons  justice." 

Raphael,  then,  determined  to  represent  the  idea  of 
Law,  by  representing  three  of  its  qualities:  Pru- 
dence, Firmness  and  Moderation.  These  three  again 
are  abstract  ideas.  No  one  has  ever  seen  them  or 
will  see  them;  we  can  only  see  the  results  of  them, 

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Geometric  Composition 

the  acts  which  they  influence  man  to  do.  So  if 
Prudence,  Firmness  and  Moderation  have  no  visible 
shape,  how  could  he  represent  them  to  the  eye  ?  He 
probably  took  a  hint  from  a  form  of  a  stage  play 
that  was  popular  in  his  day.  At  any  rate  he  did 
what  the  authors  of  these  "  Moralities  "  or  "  Alle- 
gories "  were  in  the  habit  of  doing.  For  they  in- 
troduced as  characters  in  their  plays  the  Vices  and 
Virtues;  making  an  actor,  for  example,  personify 
Gluttony  or  embody  in  his  own  person  the  idea  of 
Gluttony.  Thus,  a  fat  man  would  be  chosen  for  the 
part,  and  he  would  pad  himself  so  as  to  look  still 
fatter;  he  would  make  his  face  shining  and  greasy, 
and  perhaps  cover  the  front  of  his  coat  with  grease, 
to  suggest  what  a  greedy  and  dirty  feeder  he  was. 
He  would  come  on  the  stage  eating,  and  anything 
he  had  to  say  or  do  would  help  the  audience  to 
realise  that  the  only  thing  he  lived  for  was  to  stuff 
himself  with  food.  This  was  called  an  embodiment 
or  personification  of  Gluttony;  for  the  idea  of  Glut- 
tony was  suggested  in  the  person  of  the  actor  by  the 
peculiarities  of  his  body  and  behaviour.  While  the 
personifications  of  the  Vices  were  for  the  most  part 
comic,  those  of  the  virtues  were  beautiful  or  heroic, 
so  that  these  Moralities  or  Allegories  were  as  popular 
with  the  crowd  as  with  people  of  taste.  Sometimes 
the  allegory  was  represented,  not  with  figures  moving 
about  the  stage,  speaking  and  acting,  but  as  a  sta- 
tionary group,  in  which  the  figures  were  raised  on 
steps,  so  that  a  very  imposing  composition  or  tab- 
leau was  presented.  And  no  doubt,  when  these  were 

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given  on  a  grand  scale  artists  often  arranged  the 
spectacle. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  artists  were  not  slow 
to  adopt  the  same  idea  in  their  pictures.  The 
great  altarpieces  and  large  decorations,  painted  by 
the  Italian  artists  of  the  Fifteenth  and  Sixteenth 
Centuries  are  to  all  intents  and  purposes  allegories. 
Such  certainly  is  this  Jurisprudence  of  Raphael's. 
He  has  personified  the  three  virtues  of  Prudence, 
Firmness  and  Moderation.  To  Prudence  he  has 
given  two  faces.  One  is  old,  for  it  gazes  back  over 
the  long  past ;  the  other  has  the  freshness  of  youth, 
as  it  peers  into  the  future.  It  is  looking  at  itself 
in  a  mirror.  Why?  For  everything  in  these  alle- 
gories is  intended  to  convey  a  meaning  to  the  minds 
of  the  spectators.  Perhaps  there  are  two  reasons. 
The  face  is  gazing  at  the  reflection  of  itself,  as  it 
now  is;  for  Prudence,  besides  taking  note  of  the 
past  and  looking  toward  the  future,  must  know  the 
present.  Again,  since  a  mirror  reflects  what  is  in 
front  of  it  and  shows  us  our  face  as  others  see  it, 
it  was  used  by  the  artists  as  an  emblem  of  Truth. 
And  to  know  the  truth  is  wisdom,  and  to  act  accord- 
ing to  truth  and  wisdom  is  prudence.  So,  when  you 
see  a  figure  holding  the  emblem  of  the  mirror,  you 
may  be  sure  the  artist  is  personifying  the  idea  of 
Truth,  or  Wisdom,  or  Prudence,  or  all  three  com- 
bined. 

On  the  bosom  of  Prudence  is  a  winged  head ;  per- 
haps intended  for  the  head  of  Medusa,  which  turned 
to  stone  every  one  who  looked  at  it.  If  so,  it  is  an 

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Geometric  Composition 

emblem  here  of  the  terribleness  of  Prudence,  when 
offended.  She  is  gentle  in  herself,  but  a  terror 
to  evil  doers.  At  her  side  a  baby  form  holds  a 
torch.  This  was  used  as  the  emblem  of  that  which 
enlightens  the  world — Learning;  and  suggests  here 
that  Prudence  is  illuminated  by  learning,  per- 
haps also,  that  truth  and  wisdom  and  prudence  are 
themselves  lights  which  lighten  the  darkness  of  the 
world. 

The  figure  to  the  right  of  the  Torch-bearer  offers 
Prudence  a  bit  and  reins.  It  is  with  these  that  men 
control  horses;  so  they  were  adopted  by  painters  as 
an  emblem  of  control;  and,  knowing  this,  we  recog- 
nise that  the  woman  who  holds  them  is  intended  to 
personify  Moderation.  Her  whole  bearing  suggests 
modesty,  which  is  a  form  of  moderation,  for  both 
words  imply  that  a  person  has  the  sense  to  know 
how  far  it  is  right  to  go,  and  where  it  is  fit  to  stop. 

But  note  the  figure  of  the  woman  on  the  rigtyt. 
She  is  of  powerful  build,  seated  in  a  positive  sort  of 
attitude  that  has  nothing  of  the  gentle  retiring  char- 
acter of  the  other  figures.  She  is  a  personification 
of  Firmness,  armed  for  defense,  with  helmet,  cuirass, 
and  greaves.  But,  though  she  carries  no  weapon  of 
offense,  she  holds  in  leash  one  of  those  pumas  with 
which  the  ancients  used  to  hunt  big  game.  She 
will,  if  necessary,  pursue  and  pull  down  the  law's 
transgressors.  Meanwhile  she  bears  an  oak  branch, 
the  emblem  of  strength  and  victory  in  civil  life,  as 
opposed  to  the  laurel  of  war,  for  her  victories  are 
those  of  peace.  The  little  Cupids,  or  Amorini,  as 

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the  Italians  call  them,  except  the  two  who  carry  the 
mirror  and  torch,  are  put  in  simply  to  increase  the 
beauty  of  the  composition. 

I  have  dwelt  first  upon  the  subject  of  this  decora- 
tion, because  it  is  a  key  to  so  many  of  the  old  paint- 
ings and  to  many  modern  ones  as  well.  Their  sub- 
jects represent  abstract  ideas  personified,  embodied 
in  human  form ;  the  particular  idea  being  shown  by 
the  emblems  which  accompany  each  figure.  People 
had  come  to  recognise  that  such  and  such  an  em- 
blem indicated  such  and  such  an  idea,  and,  whenever 
a  painter  wished  to  suggest  that  idea,  he  represented 
a  figure  with  the  familiar  emblem. 

!N"ow,  too,  that  we  have  grasped  the  meaning  of 
this  allegory  of  Raphael's  we  can  better  enter  into 
his  manner  of  representing  it.  Since  the  idea  is  an 
abstract  one,  he  has  expressed  it  in  an  abstract  way. 
That  is  to  say,  he  has  not  attempted  to  represent  real 
life,  or  the  figures  as  doing  any  real  thing.  It  is 
true  they  are  life-like  and  their  actions  are  quite 
natural;  but  the  positions  in  which  they  have  been 
placed  were  chosen  in  order  that  the  arrangement 
of  their  limbs  and  bodies  might  produce  an  effect  of 
beautiful  rhythmic  balance.  Perhaps  this  was  Ra- 
phael's only  thought,  for  he  was  above  everything 
an  artist,  whose  work  in  life  it  is  to  create  forms  of 
beauty.  Yet  he  had  a  mind  so  ready  to  receive  all 
kinds  of  impressions  that,  living  as  he  did  in  a  very 
lawless  age,  when  men  were  guided  more  by  self 
than  justice,  he  may  have  realised  how  beautiful 
would  be  a  reign  of  law  and  order. 


Geometric  Composition 

Anyhow,  this  decoration  in  a  wonderful  way  pos- 
sesses just  those  characteristics  that  would  belong  to 
a  state  of  society  in  which  justice  or  justness  were  the 
natural  habit  and  not  merely  a  thing  enforced  by  law. 
How  simple  life  would  be  if  every  man  did  to  others 
what  he  would  have  them  do  to  him,  and  instead  of 
rivalry  and  suspicion,  what  a  harmony  there  would 
be !  It  is  harmony  and  simplicity  that  are  the  chief 
characteristics  of  this  decoration. 

The  simplicity  is  very  marked.  There  are  three 
principal  figures.  I  believe,  if  there  were  nothing 
else  but  these,  the  balance  of  the  composition  would 
be  complete,  and  certainly  the  allegory  would  be  ex- 
plained. But  balance  is  not  necessarily  harmony. 
In  a  school  debate,  for  instance,  ten  of  you  on  the 
right  of  the  room  may  say  "  aye,"  and  ten  on  the 
left  may  say  "  no,"  to  a  subject  which  is  being  dis- 
cussed between  you.  There  is  a  balance — ten  on  one 
side,  opposed  to  ten  on  the  other. 

But  in  this  decoration  there  is  harmony.  You 
have  only  to  look  at  the  picture  to  be  sure  of  it 
You  cannot  detect  any  rivalry  between  the  three 
figures,  although  one  of  them  is  so  much  more  mass- 
ive than  either  of  the  other  two.  All  of  them  seem 
drawn  together  into  one  chord  of  feeling,  the  lead- 
ing note  of  which  is  the  head  of  Prudence,  lifted 
above  the  heads  of  her  companions  and  seen  alone 
against  the  open  space  of  the  sky  and  in  the  place 
of  chief  importance — the  center  of  the  arc  of  space. 
Please  remind  me  presently  to  say  a  word  about  the 
placing  of  this  head,  for  just  now  I  do  not  wish  to 

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interrupt  the  subject  that  we  are  considering — the 
harmony  of  the  composition. 

This  is  brought  about  particularly  by  the  Amorini 
that,  as  it  were,  bind  the  three  figures  into  a  garland 
of  festoons.  Note,  first,  the  two  which  are  on  the 
extreme  right  and  left.  The  wing  and  arm  of  the 
former  and  the  inclination  of  the  latter's  whole  body 
suggest  diagonal  lines.  These  cut  across  the  angles 
of  the  space,  or  as  they  say  in  geometry,  subtend  the 
angles ;  tying  their  two  arms  together  and  also  offer- 
ing a  strong  contrast  to  their  direction.  The  baby 
figures  also  keep  the  composition  from  running  away 
to  nothing  at  the  corners,  for  they  serve  the  pur- 
pose of  making  the  pattern  curl  up  at  each  end.  Or 
suppose  we  think  of  the  pattern  of  the  composition, 
as  if  it  were  partly  made  up  of  a  wreath,  such  as 
we  use  at  Christmas  time  to  festoon  our  houses. 
Imagine  a  nail  driven  into  the  wall  where  the  head 
of  the  baby  on  the  left  hand  is.  Attach  the  wreath 
to  it.  Now  drive  another  nail  into  the  puma's  head 
and  between  this  one  and  the  first  nail,  let  a  loop 
of  the  wreath  hang  down  so  that  it  follows  the  di- 
rection of  the  baby's  body  and  a  bit  of  the  oak  stem. 
This  direction,  if  you  look  at  the  picture,  suggests 
a  festoon.  Now  continue  to  make  festoons — first 
along  the  arm  of  Firmness  up  to  the  hand  oftlie 
Cupid;  now  another  from  that  point  along  the  line 
on  the  Cupid's  wing  and  arm  and  up  the  arm  of 
the  next  little  figure;  another  from  the  top  of  the 
mirror,  following  the  curve  of  the  arm  of  Prudence 
up  to  her  head.  So  far,  on  the  left  side  of  the 

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Geometric  Composition 

painting  we  have  four  small  festoons.  But  I  wonder 
if  you  can  make  out  another  one  a  long  one,  the 
ends  of  which  are  fastened  to  the  head  of  Prudence 
and  that  of  the  baby  in  the  left  corner.  It  follows 
the  slope  of  the  figure  of  Prudence  until  it  reaches 
her  foot,  the  direction  of  which  starts  it  across  the 
gap  between  her  and  Firmness,  where  the  line  re- 
appears, following  the  folds  of  the  latter 's  drapery, 
at  first  along  the  floor  and  then  above  her  greave 
up  to  the  baby's  head. 

And  now  for  the  right  hand  side  of  the  painting. 
In  the  first  place  there  is  a  repetition  of  the  long 
festoon.  This  one  is  suspended  from  the  head  of 
Prudence  to  the  top  of  the  wing  of  the  Cupid  in 
the  right  hand  corner.  It  dips  down  along  the  curve 
of  the  torch,  down  through  the  folds  of  Moderation's 
drapery  to  her  feet  and  then  rises  up  and  passes 
round  the  back  of  the  child.  But  hanging  above 
this  main  festoon  are  two  rows  of  smaller  ones. 
Firstly  we  find  a  very  shallow  festoon  from  the  head 
of  Prudence  to  the  hand  which  holds  the  bit;  an- 
other from  this  point  to  the  top  of  the  head  of 
Moderation.  Below  this,  however,  is  again  a  festoon 
from  the  bit,  along  the  droop  of  the  reins  to  the 
hand  which  holds  them,  from  which  point  there  is 
still  another  along  the  arm  up  to  the  head. 

Now,  I  do  not  for  a  moment  wish  you  to  think 
that  Raphael  chose  points  in  his  composition  and 
then  arranged  that  the  lines  of  the  limbs  and  dra- 
peries should  form  festoons  between  them.  In  ex- 
amining his  work,  I  am  trying  not  to  tell  you  how 

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he  did  it,  but  to  explain  what  has  been  done.  And 
here,  clearly  visible,  are  what  I  have  called,  festoons. 
We  might  describe  them  by  some  other  name — as 
ripples  of  movement.  For  as  the  water  in  some  shal- 
low brook  ripples  over  and  between  the  stones  dan- 
cing in  the  sunshine,  so  these  curves  of  movement, 
now  in  light  and  now  in  shadow,  flow  between  these 
figures  and  flow  over  them,  until  the  whole  composi- 
tion is  a  woven  mass  of  rhythmic  undulations. 
Rhythmic?  Yes,  it  is  just  because  these  ripples  or 
festoons  present  such  a  beautiful  example  of  rhythm, 
that  I  have  dwelt  upon  them.  In  fact  it  is  the 
rhythmic  movement  of  the  composition  that  gives  to 
this  painting  its  greatest  charm. 

In  the  following  chapter  I  shall  have  more  to  say 
about  the  rhythmic  movements  of  the  figures.  Let 
us  conclude  this  one  with  a  few  words  about  the 
geometric  plan  on  which  the  composition  of  the 
"  Jurisprudence  "  is  based.  As  I  have  said,  it  is 
not  nearly  so  apparent  as  that  of  the  Disputd.  The 
latter's  plan  looks  as  if  it  might  have  been  laid  out 
with  straight  edge  and  compasses.  It  was,  as  I  have 
told  you,  adapted  from  a  composition  by  Raphael's 
master,  Perugino.,  and  he,  very  possibly,  may  have 
adapted  it  from  some  one  else's  plan;  for  in  those 
days,  artists  did  not  see  any  harm  in  starting  with 
another  man's  design,  and  altering  it  a  little,  or 
perhaps  making  it  more  elaborate  to  suit  their  own 
purpose  for  the  moment.  But  in  the  short  time  that 
elapsed  between  the  painting  of  the  Disputd  and  the 
Jurisprudence  the  pupil  had  made  great  strides.  He 

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Geometric  Composition 

had  found  his  own  strength  and  was  working  in  the 
glory  of  it.  Therefore  the  Jurisprudence  exhibits  a 
freedom  of  design,  which  so  disguises  the  ground 
plan,  that  it  is  difficult  to  he  sure  of  what  it  is,  al- 
though one  still  feels  that  it  is  geometrical. 

The  first  thing  we  note  is  that  the  artist  has 
strengthened  the  bottom  line  of  the  lunette  by  repe- 
tition. He  has  carried  a  stone  bench  along  the  en- 
tire width,  which  also  serves  as  a  seat  for  the  fig- 
ures. Do  you  see  the  advantage  of  making  the 
figures  seated  ?  If  Raphael  had  represented  them  in 
a  standing  position,  he  would  have  had  to  make  them 
smaller  in  order  to  get  them  entirely  into  the  space ; 
and  this  would  have  lessened  the  feeling  of  bigness 
in  the  composition.  So  he  invented  a  device  by 
which  he  could  represent  them  seated.  Further,  he 
has  raised  the  bench  in  the  center  by  the  addition 
of  another  step,  so  as  to  lift  the  composition  nat- 
urally in  the  part  where  the  space  to  be  decorated  is 
highest. 

Thus  from  the  corners,  or  angles  of  the  lunette 
there  is  on  each  side  a  gradual  rise  up  to  the  head 
of  Prudence,  that  suggests  a  pyramid  or  a  triangle 
within  the  curved  space.  The  same  triangular  effect 
is  repeated  in  the  pattern,  made  by  the  figures  of 
Prudence  and  the  Cupid  who  holds  the  torch.  The 
curve  of  the  torch  is  so  arranged  as  to  balance  the 
slope  of  the  woman's  legs.  So  the  geometric  plan 
may  be  the  repetition  of  a  smaller,  inside  a  larger 
triangle,  contrasted  with  the  curve  of  the  lunette. 
On  the  other  hand,  if  you  look  at  the  painting  again, 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

you  notice  that  the  Cupid  with  the  torch  is  balanced 
by  the  one  who  holds  the  mirror.  Their  bodies  have 
a  vertical  or  upright  direction,  and  then  the  tops  of 
the  torch  and  the  mirror  supply  points  which  the  eye 
seems  to  join  by  a  horizontal  line,  so  that  a  rectangle 
occupies  the  center  of  the  composition  as  it  does  in 
the  Disputd.  This  strong  contrast  of  a  rectangular 
form  to  the  curve  of  the  lunette,  and  then  again  the 
contrast  of  the  diagonal  lines,  formed  by  the  Cupids' 
figures  across  the  angles  of  the  space,  may  be  the 
simple  geometric  elements  out  of  which  this  composi- 
tion grew. 


CHAPTER   VII 

THE   ACTION,  MOVEMENT   AND   COMPOSITION   OP 
THE  FIGURE 

WHEN  a  few  pages  back  I  spoke  of  the  move- 
ment of  the  figures  I  was  using  the  word 
as  artists  understand  it.  They  do  not  mean  by  it 
that  the  figure  is  represented  as  moving  its  limbs  or 
body.  For  this  they  use  the  word  "  action."  They 
speak  of  the  action  of  the  figure.  But  when  they 
talk  of  "  movement "  they  refer  to  the  way  in  which 
the  action  is  expressed.  They  mean  that  one,  con- 
tinuous stream  of  energy  winds  in  and  out  through 
all  the  undulations  of  the  action.  Thus,  in  the  fig- 
ure of  Moderation:  the  action  consists  in  the  fact 
that  she  is  seated,  with  her  legs  extended  to  one  side, 
while  her  body  turns  in  the  opposite  direction,  and 
while  the  hands  are  stretched  out  in  the  direction 
that  the  body  faces,  the  head  is  turned  away.  If 
you  compare  the  action  of  this  figure  with  that  of 
either  of  the  others,  you  will  see  how  much  more 
complicated  it  is ;  how  many  more  windings  it  makes. 
And  an  artist  would  say  that  this  figure  has  a  fine 
movement,  because  through  all  the  windings  or  un- 
dulations of  action  one  can  feel  a  continuous  stream 
of  energy;  so  that  every  part  of  the  figure  contrib- 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

utes  exactly  its  natural  share  to  the  action,  and  the 
lines  of  the  figure,  from  the  toe  to  the  hand  that 
holds  the  bit,  flow  continuously  and  harmoniously. 
The  only  way  in  which  you  can  see  for  yourself  how 
fine  the  movement  is,  is  to  study  it  very  carefully, 
and  hy  degrees  you  will  begin  to  discover  how  won- 
derfully the  flow  of  movement  is  expressed.  It  may 
help  you,  if  you  put  yourself  into  the  same  position, 
that  is  to  say,  make  your  own  body  represent  this 
action.  At  first  it  may  seem  a  little  awkward,  but 
presently,  as  you  adjust  your  body  to  the  actions, 
you  will  find  that  it  seems  easy  and  natural,  for  you 
will  have  secured  a  perfect  poise.  And,  after  all, 
it  is  the  perfect  poise  in  the  action  of  this  figure  of 
Moderation  that  helps  to  make  the  movements  so  fine. 
Now  turn  to  the  figure  of  Prudence.  Here  the 
action  is  much  simpler.  The  body  faces  in  the  same 
direction  that  the  legs  extend.  But  it  leans  back  a 
little.  If  you  try  the  action  yourself,  you  will  find 
it  difficult,  for  the  stretching  out  of  the  legs  makes 
you  wish  to  bring  your  body  forward,  so  as  to  make 
the  balance  easy.  But  Raphael,  knowing  this,  has 
made  Prudence  prop  up  her  body,  as  it  were,  by 
leaning  its  weight  on  her  left  arm.  Do  you  see  how 
this  forces  up  her  left  shoulder  ?  The  representation 
of  this  and  the  drawing  of  the  arm  make  us  feel  what 
a  pressure  of  weight  downwards  the  hand  has  to 
support.  Artists,  you  will  find,  usually  make  some 
one  part  of  the  figure  carry  the  chief  weight.  Some- 
times they  may  paint  a  standing  figure  in  which 
the  weight  passes  straight  down  through  the  figure 

76 


Action  and  Composition  of  the  Eigure 

and  is  supported  evenly  by  the  two  feet,  like  a  col- 
umn bearing  down  on  to  its  base.  But,  more  often, 
they  make  one  leg  carry  the  chief  weight,  or,  as  in 
this  figure,  one  arm.  Then  it  becomes  very  interest- 
ing ;  first,  to  study  the  part  of  chief  muscular  strain, 
and  secondly,  to  note  how  all  the  other  parts  of  the 
action  harmonise  with  it.  For  example,  in  this  fig- 
ure of  Prudence,  although  the  arm  sustains  the  chief 
pressure,  a  considerable  amount  must  bear  down 
through  her  trunk  *  on  to  the  seat.  But,  if  we  com- 
pare her  trunk  with  that  of  Moderation,  I  think  we 
shall  feel  at  once  that  the  latter  is  supporting  the 
greater  weight.  In  fact,  the  point  of  greatest  mus- 
cular action  in  the  figure  of  Moderation  is  at  the 
base  of  the  trunk. 

But  to  return  to  Prudence.  We  have  noted  that 
the  left  shoulder  is  raised  higher  than  the  right. 
Now  observe  the  inclination  of  the  head  as  it  leans 
gently  forward  on  the  neck  to  gaze  into  the  mirror 
and  the  easy  action  of  the  arm  that  holds  the  light 
mirror.  Equally  easy  and  without  effort  is  the 
action  of  the  legs.  In  fact,  except  for  the  firm  quiet 
pressure  on  the  arm,  the  whole  figure  suggests  a  gra- 
cious repose.  !N"ot  only  is  the  expression  of  the  face 
sweetly  meditative,  but  the  same  feeling,  as  the  ar- 
tists would  say,  of  exquisite  repose  pervades  the  en- 
tire figure.  You  should  learn  to  look  for  this  in 
pictures.  Do  not  be  satisfied  only  with  a  beautiful 
face;  but  expect  to  find  the  beauty  and  the  same 

1  The  body  between  the  neck  and  the  commencement  of  the 
legs. 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

kind  of  beauty  expressed  in  the  action  and  movement 
of  the  figure.  For  it  is  in  this  expression  of  feeling 
that  an  artist  shows  his  skill. 

Compare  the  feeling  in  the  figure  of  Moderation. 
It  is  no  less  marked,  though  the  feeling  expressed 
is  a  different  one.  It  is  also  quiet  and  gracious, 
but  it  does  not  suggest  repose.  Corresponding  with 
the  flexible,  winding  movement,  the  feeling  is  rather 
one  of  reaching  out,  as  if  in  pleading  or  tender  invi- 
tation. However,  it  is  often  very  difficult  to  explain 
in  words  just  what  the  feeling  of  a  figure  expresses ; 
and  perhaps  it  is  better  not  to  try  to  do  so.  The 
main  thing  for  you  is  to  get  the  habit  of  feeling  the 
feeling. 

Now  let  us  study  the  feeling  of  Firmness.  Like 
that  of  the  central  figure,  it  suggests  repose;  but  a 
repose  not  so  much  of  gracious  meditation,  as  of 
strength  and  force.  In  a  moment,  if  need  be,  this 
figure  would  rise  to  its  feet,  thrill  with  alertness  and 
put  forth  its  strength.  Meanwhile,  as  it  sits,  the 
line  of  pressure  is  straight  down  through  the  cen- 
ter of  the  trunk,  and  it  is  the  lower  muscles  of  the 
back  that  are  supporting  the  chief  weight.  One 
shoulder  is  raised,  not  however,  because  it  has  to 
bear  any  pressure  as  in  the  case  of  the  central  fig- 
ure, but  simply  because  the  trunk  inclines  a  little 
toward  the  puma.  Observe,  though,  that  the  head 
is  held  erect  over  the  central  line  of  the  figure.  If 
it  were  not,  the  feeling  of  firm  strength  in  the  figure 
would  be  lessened.  On  the  other  hand  the  face  is 
turned  to  one  side,  in  order  that  by  its  contrast  of 

78 


Action  and  Composition  of  the  Figure 

direction  the  movement  of  the  whole  figure  may  be 
more  effective. 

For,  I  wonder  if  you  have  noticed  that  the  move- 
ment in  every  case  presents  a  chain  of  contrasts  and 
repetitions.  Start,  for  example,  with  the  left  foot 
of  Firmness,  and  move  your  finger  over  the  direc- 
tion of  the  figure ;  first  up  the  calf  of  the  leg  to  the 
knee;  then  off  toward  the  right  to  the  hip;  then 
leftward  up  the  body,  then  again  to  the  right  at 
the  slope  of  the  shoulders;  then  slightly  to  the  left 
up  the  neck,  and  lastly  note  the  face  turned  to  the 
right  You  will  have  found  that  your  finger  has 
described  a  series  of  zig-zags.  If  you  start  with  the 
other  foot,  the  figure  will  equally  present  a  series 
of  zig-zags,  though  some  differ  from  the  former  ones. 

Similarly,  if  you  begin  with  the  foot  of  Prudence, 
your  eye  travels  up  to  the  knee;  then  horizontally 
toward  the  lap;  next  up  the  slight  backward  slope 
of  the  body;  then  in  the  opposite  direction,  when 
you  reach  the  neck  and  head.  The  contrasts  in  the 
figure  of  Moderation  are  so  marked,  that  I  am  sure 
you  can  make  the  zig-zag  for  yourself. 

I  have  used  the  wrord  zig-zag  because  I  want  you 
to  feel  how  marked  the  contrasts  are,  and  to  realise 
that  it  is  by  means  of  these  contrasts  that  an  artist 
composes  his  figures.  The  zig-zag,  however,  in  the 
actual  figure  has  rounded  angles ;  it  is  indeed  rather 
a  series  of  alternate  curves  to  right  and  left,  some- 
what like  the  curves  described  by  a  skilful  and  grace- 
ful skater,  cutting  figures  on  the  ice.  And  it  is  this 
series  of  curves  that  give  the  effect  of  rhythm  as  well 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

as  harmony  to  the  figures  in  this  picture.  For,  as 
you  may  have  seen  for  yourself,  the  principles  on 
which  an  artist  composes  a  single  figure  are  the 
same  as  those  he  uses  in  the  composition  of  several 
figures  into  one  picture.  He  relies  upon  repetitions 
and  contrasts  to  produce  a  balance,  which  because 
of  its  rhythm  of  parts  shall  ensure  a  harmonious 
whole. 

The  only  difference  in  the  case  of  the  picture  is 
that  the  composition  is  made  up,  not  only  of  figures, 
but  of  the  empty  spaces  of  the  background  also.  As 
artists  would  say,  the  composition  is  an  arrangement 
of  full  and  empty  spaces;  and  its  beauty  depends 
upon  the  harmony  and  balance  between  them.  In 
the  Jurisprudence,  for  example,  it  is  remarkable  how 
the  space  filled  by  the  figure  of  Prudence,  corre- 
sponds in  size  and  even  in  its  wedge  shape  to  the 
empty  space  formed  by  the  upper  and  lower  step  of 
stonework.  For  the  rest,  the  quantity  of  space  oc- 
cupied by  the  other  two  figures  seems  to  be  about 
equal  to  the  empty  spaces  around  them,  though  the 
latter,  instead  of  being  solid  masses  are  broken  up 
and  distributed.  But  you  will  notice,  how  large  a 
stretch  of  empty  space  is  left  at  the  top  of  the 
lunette,  so  that  the  eye  is  drawn  upward  and  the 
dignity  of  the  whole  decoration  thereby  elevated. 
Note  also,  what  a  quiet  impressive  spot  the  head  of 
Prudence  makes  against  the  background  of  the  sky. 
There  is,  as  it  were,  nothing  to  disturb  its  gracious 
repose.  This  device  of  setting  a  figure  against  the 
background  of  the  sky,  Raphael  may  have  learned 

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'Action  and  Composition  of  the  Figure 

from  one  of  his  masters,  Pemgine.  At  any  rate, 
both  employed  it,  with  beautiful  effect. 

You  may  often  see  in  nature  the  beauty  of  this 
effect;  when,  for  example,  on  the  top  of  some  rising 
ground  a  tree,  or  a  figure,  or  a  church  spire,  stands 
against  the  sky.  If  the  object  is  motionless,  it  seems 
to  become  more  impressive  because  of  the  vastness  of 
the  sky.  Or,  should  the  objects  be  children  at  play 
(I  can  remember  a  picture  of  this),  then  their  sport 
seems  to  take  on  more  joyousness,  freedom,  and 
buoyancy,  from  the  vastness  of  the  sky. 

And  now,  a  short  description  of  the  way  in  which 
this  decoration  was  painted.  It  is  what  is  called 
"  fresco,"  an  Italian  word  that  means  "  fresh." 
The  name  is  used  because  the  painting  is  done  while 
the  plaster  of  the  wall  is  still  fresh,  that  is  to  say, 
not  "  set "  or  dry.  The  following  is  the  process. 
The  wall  was  first  covered,  as  in  our  houses  to-day, 
with  a  coat  of  rough-cast  plaster,  which  was  allowed 
to  dry  thoroughly.  In  the  meanwhile  the  artist  had 
prepared  full-sized  drawings  of  his  figures.  As  soon 
as  he  was  ready,  a  thin  coating  of  smooth-finish 
plaster  was  spread  over  such  portion  of  the  lunette 
as  he  could  paint  in  a  day.  Upon  this  the  drawing 
was  placed  and  an  assistant  would  go  over  all  the 
lines  with  a  blunt-pointed  tool,  pressing  hard  enough 
on  the  paper  to  leave  a  mark  in  the  plaster  under- 
neath. There,  when  the  paper  was  removed,  ap- 
peared the  figure,  enclosed  in  grooved  lines.  Then 
the  artist  set  to  work  and  laid  in  the  color,  using 
paint  that  was  mixed,  not  with  oil,  but  with  water 

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to  which  some  gluey  substance  was  added.  The 
plaster,  you  remember,  was  still  damp,  but  since  it 
contained  plenty  of  cement,  dried  or  "  set "  quickly, 
and  as  it  dried,  the  paint  dried  with  it,  and  became 
a  part  of  the  plaster.  When  it  was  done,  the  artist, 
if  he  wished,  could  add  a  few  decisive  strokes.  The 
following  day  another  portion  of  the  lunette  would 
be  treated  in  the  same  manner  and  so  on  until  the 
whole  was  painted.  It  is  a  method,  you  see,  that 
left  the  artist  no  chance  of  fumbling  over,  his  work. 
He  had  to  make  up  his  mind  beforehand  exactly 
what  he  meant  to  do4  and  to  do  it  quickly.  Hence, 
with  an  artist  so  skilled  as  Eaphael,  the  work  has 
the  extra  charm  that  belongs  to  what  has  been  done 
easily  and  fluently.  You  know  how  much  pleasanter 
it  is  to  listen  to  an  easy,  fluent  speaker  than  to  one 
who  hesitates  and  corrects  himself  continually.  So, 
too,  in  a  work  of  art,  the  feeling  that  it  has  grown 
easily  under  the  artist's  hand  adds  to  our  enjoyment 
of  it.  It  seems  to  be  a  spontaneous  expression  of 
himself. 


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CHAPTEE   VIII 

THE  CLASSIC  LANDSCAPE 

WE  have  seen  in  the  previous  chapters  how 
Raphael  built  up  composition  from  a  sim- 
ple geometric  plan,  on  the  principles  of  repetition 
and  contrast,  rhythmically  balanced.  Other  Italian 
artists  worked  upon  the  same  lines,  and  with  such 
skill  and  grandeur  of  invention  that  the  Italian 
pictures,  especially  of  the  Sixteenth  Century,  are 
still  considered  the  finest  examples  of  this  sort  of 
composition.  It  is  distinguished  by  being  what  we 
may  call  "  formal,"  or  ^  conventional." 

The  figures  are  arranged,  that  is  to  say,  not  as 
you  would  be  likely  to  see  them  in  actual  life,  but 
according  to  a  rule  or  formula  or  convention.  The 
idea  has  been  not  to  represent  a  real  scene,  but  to 
display  the  figures  and  their  surroundings  in  such 
a  way  as  to  produce  an  effect  of  beauty;  sometimes 
a  simple  one,  more  often  one  of  great  impressiveness 
or  magnificent  splendor.  The  figures  and  other  ob- 
jects have  been  so  arranged  and  so  drawn  as  to  fur- 
nish an  orderly  pattern  of  beauty  and  dignity.  The 
subjects  of  the  pictures  might  be  taken  from  the 
Bible  story  or  from  the  legends  of  ancient  Greece, 
or  be  simply  invented  to  set  forth  the  pride  that  the 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

people  took  in  their  cities — the  pomp  and  glory  of 
Venice,  for  example.  But,  no  matter  what  the  sub- 
ject might  be,  the  aim  of  the  artist  was  first  and 
foremost  to  paint  a  thing  of  beauty.  And  in  this 
search  for  beauty  he  soon  discovered  how  much  de- 
pended upon  the  surroundings  of  his  figures  and  the 
objects  that  he  introduced. 

When  he  desired  the  simpler  kind  of  beauty  he 
set  his  figures  in  lovely  landscape  scenery  with  hills 
and  trees  and  winding  streams ;  when  he  was  bent  on 
grander  effects,  he  added  architectural  settings.  Eor 
the  architects  of  that  day  were  erecting  noble  build- 
ings with  columns  and  arches,  vaulted  roofs  and 
domes ;  partly  in  imitation  of  the  remains  of  Roman 
architecture,  but  also  designed  in  a  fresh  spirit  of 
invention  to  fit  the  new  purposes  for  which  the 
buildings  were  required.  Thus  arose  that  vast 
temple  of  the  Roman  Church,  St.  Peter's.  It  is 
what  is  called  a  classic  building;  because  its  style 
is  in  many  respects  like  that  of  the  old  classic  Roman 
temples,  which  in  their  turn  had  represented  a  new 
use  of  the  still  older  classic  style  of  Greek  archi- 
tecture. 

The  painters,  then,  inspired  by  the  work  of  the 
architects,  discovered  how  much  dignity  they  could 
give  to  their  own  compositions  by  introducing  archi- 
tectural features.  Sometimes  they  would  introduce 
columns,  or  a  flight  of  steps  or  a  balustrade,  some- 
times a  whole  building;  or  represent  the  figures 
grouped  in  a  street  or  square,  surrounded  by  build- 
ings, or  often  inside  a  building,  standing  under  a 

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The  Classic  Landscape 

vaulted  ceiling.  These  are  only  a  few  of  the  archi- 
tectural features,  so  freely  used  by  the  Italian  paint- 
ers. Let  us  study  their  value  to  the  composition. 

Some  people  who  live  in  country  homes  are  fond 
of  flowers.  They  grow  cluster-roses,  honeysuckle, 
wistaria  and  other  long-armed  climbing  plants  over 
their  verandahs.  If  they  are  fond  of  gardening  and 
not  satisfied  merely  with  a  lawn  and  a  few  shrubs, 
they  will  erect  arches  and  trellis-work  on  which 
vines  may  cling  and  cluster.  In  the  first  place,  they 
know  that  these  slender,  straggling  plants  will  thrive 
better,  if  they  have  some  support ;  they  will  not  be  so 
torn  by  the  buffets  of  the  wind,  and  their  limbs  and 
leaves  and  flowers  will  get  more  sunshine.  Secondly, 
they  will  show  to  better  advantage,  because  of  the 
contrast  of  their  winding,  wreathing  forms  and  ir- 
regular masses  with  the  firm,  strong,  simple  lines 
of  the  verandah  or  trellis-work.  United  they  form  a 
prettier  composition,  than  would  the  vines  and  clus- 
ter-roses, if  huddling  in  an  unsupported  tangle. 

The  principle  is  the  same  in  the  composition  of  a 
picture,  where  the  vines  are  represented  by  the  ac- 
tion of  the  figures.  To  their  irregular  masses  of 
drapery  and  undulating  lines  of  limbs  the  architec- 
ture presents  at  once  the  contrast  and  support  of  de- 
cided lines  and  clearly  defined  masses.  And  since 
the  classic  style  of  architecture,  which  was  used,  is 
so  noble,  it  added  nobility  to  the  composition.  Even 
the  penny  photographs  of  the  Italian  pictures  will 
prove  to  you  that  this  is  so.  Study  them  and  find 
this  out  for  yourselves. 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

Now,  the  example  of  the  Italians,  in  this  respect, 
was  followed  by  other  nations,  especially  the  French. 
The  latter  continue  to  this  day  the  painting  of  beau- 
tiful pictures  in  which  the  figures  are  combined  with 
landscape  and  architecture.  And  our  own  Amer- 
ican artists  are  doing  the  same  thing,  as  you  can  see 
if  you  have  a  chance  of  visiting  the  Library  of  Con- 
gress, at  Washington,  or  any  other  of  the  public 
buildings  throughout  this  country,  in  which  the  walls 
have  been  decorated  with  mural  paintings.1 

So  far  we  have  been  speaking  of  the  use  of  archi- 
tecture to  support  the  figures.  In  time,  however, 
artists  found  a  new  use  for  it.  They  employed  it 
to  support  the  landscape;  which  brings  us  to  a  talk 
about  what  is  called  the  "  Classic  Landscape." 

Nowadays,  when  so  many  artists  paint  nothing 
else  but  landscape  pictures,  it  may  seem  strange  that 
the  Italians  of  the  Fifteenth  and  Sixteenth  Cen- 
turies used  landscape  only  as  a  support  for  the  fig- 
ures. It  was  not  because  they  were  blind  to  the  beau- 
tiful scenery  of  their  own  country,  for,  when  they 
did  introduce  it  into  their  pictures,  they  represented 
it  in  a  very  lovely  way.  But  always  as  a  back- 
ground to  the  figures,  which  you  are  made  to  feel 
are  the  principal  features  of  the  picture.  The 
reason  is  that  the  public  for  whom  they  painted  de- 
manded figure  subjects.  The  Church  required  pic- 
tures that  would  bring  home  to  the  hearts  of  the 
people  who  could  not  read  the  beauty  of  the  Bible 

1  Mural — (Latin  mwms,  a  wall),  having  to  do  with  a  wall;  in 
this  case  a  decoration  on  a  wall. 

86 


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The  Classic  Landscape 

Story ;  rich  men  and  women  wished  to  decorate  their 
palaces  with  scenes  from  the  old  Greek  legends; 
while  cities  adorned  their  public  buildings  with 
allegorical  subjects  in  which  the  pride  they  took  in 
their  own  municipal  life  was  set  forth  in  figures, 
personifying  the  character  of  its  greatness.  More- 
over, those  were  stirring  times  in  which  the  rivalry 
between  the  cities  and  between  the  noble  families  led 
to  constant  wars  and  plottings.  Men,  beginning  as 
nobodies,  rose  rapidly  to  power.  'Noi,  as  they  do 
to-day  in  our  country,  by  using  their  brains  and 
energy  in  the  peaceful  pursuits  of  industry  and  trade 
and  learning;  but  through  brute  force,  guided  by 
brains  that  schemed  to  win  by  fraud  and  violence. 
So  it  was  man  that,  as  we  say,  cut  the  chief  figure 
in  these  times;  man's  power  and  woman's  beauty. 
Mankind  was  so  interested  in  itself  that  it  spared 
little  thought  for  the  beauty  of  nature.  It  is  true 
that  architects  built  noble  houses  on  sites  command- 
ing beautiful  views  and  laid  out  the  gardens  with 
fountains,  trees  and  flowers.  Even  this  however,  was 
for  the  glorification  of  some  man  or  woman.  But 
the  love  of  nature  which  leads  artists  to  paint  land- 
scapes and  the  public  to  value  such  pictures  is  a  dif- 
ferent thing.  In  the  love  of  nature  man  forgets 
himself;  he  is  absorbed  in  the  beauty  of  the  natural 
world  outside  himself;  he  is  fond  of  nature  for  its 
own  sake. 

It  was  not  until  the  Seventeenth  Century  that  ar- 
tists began  to  study  and  paint  the  landscape  in  this 
spirit  .When  they  did  so,  the  landscape  took  the 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

first  place  in  their  pictures,  and  the  figures,  if  any 
were  introduced,  became  the  unimportant  features, 
kept  small  and  put  in  merely  to  enliven  the  scene. 
By  this  time  landscape  painting,  as  a  subject  distinct 
in  itself,  branched  out  into  two  directions — the 
naturalistic  and  the  formal.  The  naturalistic  was 
practised  by  the  Dutch  artists,  who  painted  the  out 
of  door  life  and  appearance  of  Holland  so  truth- 
fully, that  to-day  when  we  look  at  their  pictures  we 
can  see  the  meadows  and  streams,  the  mills  and  the 
farms,  exactly  as  they  were  three  hundred  years  ago. 
But  the  subject  of  natural  landscape  we  will  study 
later  on. 

The  other  kind  of  landscape  I  have  called  formal 
because,  instead  of  being  drawn  directly  from  na- 
ture, it  was  made  up,  like  the  Italian  figure  pictures, 
according  to  a  rule  or  formula  or  convention.  Just 
as  in  those  pictures  the  figures  were  represented  as 
grander  and  more  beautiful  than  people  usually  are 
in  real  life,  and  were  arranged  for  the  purpose  of 
a  handsome  composition  in  attitudes  that  people  do 
not  usually  assume,  so  with  the  formal  landscapes. 
The  artists  tried  to  make  them  more  grand  and  im- 
posing than  ordinary  nature2  and  composed  them  ac- 
cording to  an  artificial  plan.  They  did  not  in  their 
picture  represent  any  real  scene  in  nature,  but  built 
up  a  number  of  natural  details  into  a  composition, 
constructed  on  a  geometric  plan.  And  especially 
they  introduced  details  of  classic  architecture;  so 
that  these  formal  designs  are  often  called  classic 
landscapes. 

88 


The  Classic  Landscape 

If  you  turn  to  the  illustration  you  will  see  at 
once  that  the  artist  has  not  represented  the  natural 
landscape.  The  very  title,  Dido  Building  Car- 
thage, shows  the  classic  influence.  The  subject  is 
taken  from  Virgil's  ^Eneid,  Book  I,  line  420. 
Turner,  the  great  English  artist,  who  in  1815 
painted  this  picture,  had  never  seen  Carthage;  nor 
had  he  ever  seen  any  spot  on  earth  like  the  one  rep- 
resented here.  What  he  had  t  seen  was  the  work  of 
Claude  Lorrain,  a  French  artist  of  the  Seventeenth 
Century,  who  lived  in  Italy  and  invented  this  kind 
of  landscape.  Turner  himself  preferred  to  paint  the 
natural  landscape;  but,  since  the  people  of  his  own 
day  admired  the  classic  landscape  of  Claude  and  his 
followers,  he  wished  to  prove  that  he  also  could  paint 
like  Claude,  if  he  chose;  and  as  well  as  the  French 
artist.  Therefore,  when  he  died,  he  left  this  picture 
and  another  classic  landscape,  The  Sun  rising  in 
a  Mist  to  the  National  Gallery,  on  condition  that 
they  should  be  hung  alongside  of  two  by  Claude  Lor- 
rain. So,  while  studying  this  picture  we  are  really 
studying  the  principles  on  which  Claude  built  up  the 
classic  landscape,  and  on  which  his  followers  worked 
for  nearly  two  hundred  years,  until  the  love  of  nature 
won  out  and  the  naturalistic  landscape  took  its  place. 

The  geometric  plan  of  this  picture  is  very  simple. 
You  can  discover  it  by  joining  the  upper  and  lower 
opposite  corners  by  two  diagonal  lines  that  cut  each 
other  in  the  center.  This  produces  four  triangles; 
of  which  the  top  is  given  to  the  sky,  the  bottom  to 
the  water^  and  the  two  sides  to  the  land  and  build- 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

ings  and  trees.  Sky  and  water  occupy  more  space 
than  the  other  two  parts;  but  since  the  latter  are 
filled  with  details  of  bold  design,  they  attract  extra 
attention,  so  that  the  balance  between  the  full  and 
empty  spaces  is  kept  true. 

The  balance  is  a  harmonious  one.  You  will  per- 
haps realise  better  what  this  means  if  you  think  for 
a  moment  of  a  balance  that  is  not  harmonious;  for 
instance  of  a  pair  of  hanging  scales,  in  one  pan  of 
which  there  is  a  flat  round  one  pound  weight,  exactly 
balancing  a  pound  of  candy  in  the  other  pan.  We 
should  not  call  this  a  harmonious  balance.  If  we 
examine  why  it  is  not,  it  will  help  us  to  understand 
the  meaning  of  harmony  in  composition.  The  reason 
is  that  there  is  no  relation  between  the  box  of  candy 
and  the  one  pound  weight,  except  that  each  weighs 
the  same.  On  the  other  hand,  in  the  picture  every 
detail  has  some  relation  to  the  otjjer  details,  and 
all  are  related  to  the  whole,  The  whole,  in  fact,  is 
a  woven  mass  of  contrasts  and  repetitions,  in  exact 
relation;  very  much  as  a  composition  of  music  is 
made  up  of  exactly  related  contrasts  and  repetitions 
of  sound  notes.  Alter  one  of  these  and  there  will 
be  a  discord,  unless  some  other  notes  are  altered  to 
restore  the  harmony.  Similarly  if  the  artist  had  al- 
tered the  shape  of  one  of  the  details  in  his  picture, 
or  its  color,  or  its  lightness  or  darkness,  there  would 
have  been  a  discord  in  the  effect  of  his  picture;  it 
would  no  longer  present  the  appearance  of  perfect 
oneness.  He  would  have  to  alter  eome  other  parts 
to  restore  the  harmony. 

90 


The  Classic  Landscape 

In  studying  the  picture  to  try  and  discover  how 
the  effect  of  harmony  is  produced  we  find  ourselves 
studying  the  contrasts  and  repetitions  of  which  it  is 
composed.  And,  first  the  contrasts.  One  big  one 
is  the  contrast  of  the  architecture  with  everything 
else  in  the  picture — the  contrast  of  these  quiet 
stately  masses,  which  seem  so  firm  and  strong,  com- 
pared with  the  shimmering  surface  of  the  water  and 
the  tremulous  mistiness  of  the  sky ;  the  contrast  also 
of  their  decided  lines  with  the  irregular  spotting  of 
the  figures,  and  with  the  irregular  masses  of  the 
trees  and  foliage.  The  big  tree,  although  it  is  mo- 
tionless in  the  quiet  air,  seems  as  if  a  breeze  would 
stir  it ;  the  water  has  ripples  of  motion ;  some  of  the 
figures  appear  to  be  moving,  while  others  are  only 
still  for  the  moment,  and  the  sky — it  is  palpitating 
with  the  actual  stir  of  the  atmosphere,  as  the  upper, 
air  gradually  cools  and  draws  up  the  warmer  air 
from  below,  and  this  warmer  air  cools  into  misti- 
ness. But  the  buildings  stand  immovable  and  solid. 
While  all  around  them  either  moves  or  could  move, 
they  seem  to  suggest  the  force  and  permanence  of 
what  does  not  change.  Or  perhaps  we  may  feel  that 
grand  as  the  buildings  are,  stately  and  magnificent, 
yet  the  sky  is  lovelier,  for  the  buildings  are  limited 
to  their  one  size  and  shape,  while  the  sky  seems  a 
part  of  that  which  has  no  limits  or  boundaries.  It 
draws  off  our  imagination  into  the  mystery  of  dis- 
tance and  of  the  unknown.  So  the  impressions  which 
the  contrast  of  the  architecture  arouses  are  not  only 
such  as  the  eye  can  see,  but  such  also  as  the  imagi* 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

nation  can  feel.  This,  no  doubt,  is  one  of  the  secrets 
of  the  pleasure  which  so  many  people  have  found 
and  still  find  in  classic  landscapes. 

And  now  for  another  series  of  contrasts :  those  sup- 
plied by  the  lights  and  darks.  In  the  original  pic- 
ture these  contrasts  would  depend  partly  on  the  color 
of  the  various  objects;  but  here,  in  the  black  and 
white  reproduction,  we  may  think  of  the  pattern 
simply  as  one  of  very  dark  spots  and  very  light  ones, 
threaded  together  by  others  of  varying  depths  of 
greyness.  Again,  what  an  important  part  the  sky 
plays!  It  is  a  flood  of  light,  against  which  every- 
thing forms  a  silhouette,1  more  or  less  dark,  re- 
lieved by  spots  and  streaks  of  light.  The  water,  but 
for  the  pathway  of  reflection,  is  shrouded  in  shadow. 
Shadow,  too,  is  wrapping  itself  round  the  tall  build- 
ing on  the  left,  and  slumbers  drowsily  among  the 
trees  on  the  opposite  hill  slopes.  The  artist,  you 
will  notice,  has  varied  the  distribution  of  shadows. 
On  the  left  the  gradation  from  very  dark  to  very 
light  is  continuous.  It  is  as  if  the  first  building 
struck  a  loud  strong  note,  and  the  sound  gradually 
diminished  toward  the  distance.  On  the  right,  how- 
ever, the  foreground  is  lighter,  and  the  dark  gradu- 
ally increases,  swelling  up,  as  they  say  in  music,  in 
a  crescendo  effect  and  then  passing  in  a  diminuendo 
far  off  into  the  distance.  In  fact,  on  both  sides  of 

1  In  1759  a  M.  de  Silhouette  was  minister  of  finance,  and  he 
was  so  economical  that  the  French  used  his  name  as  a  nickname 
for  cheap  things,  among  others  for  the  profile  portraits  cut  out 
of  black  paper,  which  were  then  popular.  In  time,  the  word 
came  to  be  used  for  any  dark  mass  seen  against  a  light  one. 

92 


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The  Classic  Landscape 

the  picture  the  arrangement  of  dark  and  light  is 
rhythmical.  I  have  only  touched  upon  the  broad 
general  plan  of  contrasted  darks  and  lights,  and 
must  leave  you  to  study  for  yourselves  the  intricate 
and  subtle  effects  with  which  the  picture  abounds; 
for  example,  the  fine  threads  and  little  dots  of  light 
and  dark  that  form  a  tangle  on  the  left  bank;  or, 
on  the  right,  the  mass  of  leafage  in  half  shadow 
against  which  the  trunk  of  the  tree  shows  very  dark. 
You  know  the  old  proverb  about  leading  a  horse  to 
the  water.  I  can  draw  your  attention  to  these 
things,  but  I  can  not  make  you  feel  their  beauty. 
I  think,  however,  I  can  promise  you,  that,  if  you  are 
sufficiently  interested  in  what  we  are  talking  about 
to  really  study  this  picture,  to  explore  carefully  the 
lighter  parts  and  peer  into  the  shadows  to  see  what 
lurks  within  them,  its  beauty  will  make  itself  known 
to  you. 

As  I  myself  am  examining  a  black  and  white 
reproduction  of  this  picture,  that  lies  before  me 
while  I  write  these  lines,  there  is  music  coming  from 
the  next  room.  It  has  stopped,  and  I  wish  it  would 
begin  again;  for  music  seems  to  fit  in  with  the  im- 
pressions that  this  picture  stirs  in  my  imagination. 
Nor  is  this  merely  a  fanciful  idea.  Music  is  one 
art  and  painting  is  another.  They  are  different,  it 
is  true,  but  yet  are  sisters  with  much  in  com- 
mon. And  why  not?  For  they  come  from  the 
same  parents — the  hand  and  the  mind  of  man.  And 
through  the  harmony  of  the  light  and  dark  of  which 
this  picture  is,  composed  there  floats,  it  seems  to  me, 

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the  fancy  of  a  melody.  I  think  it  comes  from  out 
the  endless  distance  of  that  sky ;  gently  floating  tow- 
ard us,  and  crooning  over  the  objects  in  the  fore- 
ground, as  a  mother  murmurs  a  lullaby  over  her 
baby  while  it  falls  asleep.  But  it  is  not  altogether 
crooning,  for  see  that  tree's  dark,  round  mass  of 
tone!  How  it  thumps  itself  into  our  notice,  while 
its  force  spreads  up  the  hill,  and  then  leaps  across 
the  water,  and  stirs  with  a  different  kind  of  energy 
in  the  dark  building  on  the  left.  There  is  nothing 
of  the  feebleness  and  the  helplessness  of  a  baby  in 
this  picture.  It  suggests  rather,  big  and  mighty 
effort)  growing  toward  the  time  of  rest  It  is  not 
the  music  of  a  lullaby  I  seem  to  hear,  but  the  even- 
ing hymn  of  sturdy  workers  as  they  cease  for  a  little 
from  their  toil 


CHAPTEE   IX 

NATURALISTIC  COMPOSITION 

IK  the  preceding  chapters  we  have  been  studying 
formal,  or  conventional,  composition.  We  have 
seen  how  the  artists  arrange  their  groups  of  figures 
and  the  position  and  gestures  of  each  figure  accord- 
ing to  a  rule  or  formula  or  convention,  the  basis  of 
which  is  a  geometric  plan,  on  which  they  build  up 
a  balance  of  repetitions  and  contrasts.  And  we  have 
noted  that  these  formal  compositions  are  artificial 
arrangements:  that  the  figures  are  not  grouped  as 
you  might  expect  them  to  be  in  real  life,  nor  in 
positions  that  men  and  women  usually  assume.  And 
these  formal  compositions  we  have  seen  were  also 
called,  classic',  the  last  example  being  the  classic 
landscape  in  which  nature  has  been  made  to  look 
more  grand  by  the  addition  of  features  of  classic 
architecture. 

We  reach  now  another  principle  of  composition. 
It  is  the  arrangement  adopted  by  the  artist,  whose 
motive  is  to  make  his  picture  represent  nature  nat- 
urally; so  I  call  it  naturalistic  composition.  But, 
as  we  have  noted  before,  the  artist  is  not  satisfied 
merely  to  represent  nature;  he  wishes  in  the  first 
place  to  make  his  picture  a  thing  of  beauty.  Nature 

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is  not  always  beautiful;  so  he  selects  from  nature 
and  arranges  his  subject  in  such  a  way,  that  we  shall 
not  only  recognise  how  true  the  picture  is  to  nature, 
but  feel  also  how  beautiful  it  is  as  a  work  of  art. 
Its  beauty,  you  see,  is  founded,  not  upon  a  formal 
plan,  but  on  its  truth  to  nature. 

Here  for  example,  is  The  Sower  by  the  French 
artist,  Jean  Francois  Millet  If  we  have  ever  seen  a 
man  scattering  grain,  we  recognise  at  once  the  pic- 
ture's truth  to  life.  But  Millet's  intention  was  not 
only  to  make  us  know  what  the  man  is  doing,  but 
to  create  an  impression  on  our  minds  that  shall  make 
us  feel  a  sense  of  beauty,  through  the  way  in  which 
the  picture  represents  the  incident.  As  a  young 
man,  Millet  had  studied  the  examples  of  Greek  and 
Roman  sculpture  in  the  Museum  of  the  Louvre  in 
Paris,  and  learnt  through  them  the  classic  principles 
of  composition — the  balance  obtained  by  rhythmical 
repetition  and  contrast  And  these  principles,  as  we 
shall  see  presently,  are  applied  to  this  figure  of  The 
Sower.  I  hope  to  show  you  that  this  is  the  secret 
of  the  picture's  beauty.  Although  the  action  of  the 
figure  inside  the  shabby  clothes  is  quite  natural,  the 
movement  is  rhythmical.  In  fact  it  represents  a 
mixture  of  the  classical  and  the  naturalistic  motive. 

Firstly,  the  naturalistic.  We  know  at  a  glance 
what  the  man  is  doing.  The  forms  in  the  picture, 
the  colors,  the  light  and  shade,  make  an  impression 
on  the  eye  which  is  immediately  telegraphed  to  one 
of  the  centers  of  the  brain.  The  result  is  that  we 
know  the  picture  represents  a  man  in  a  field  sowing 

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Naturalistic  Composition 

grain,  while  from  the  color  and  light  in  the  sky,  and 
the  shadows  creeping  over  the  field,  we  know  that 
it  is  twilight. 

This  direct  thought  stirs  us  to  further  thinking; 
for  we  recall  that  laborers  start  for  their  work  in 
early  morning,  so  this  one  has  probably  been  toiling 
all  through  the  day.  But  we  notice  that  his  actions 
are  still  vigorous,  he  should  be  tired,  yet  he  is  work- 
ing as  sturdily  as  at  any  time  during  the  day;  per- 
haps with  even  more  energy,  in  order  that  he  may 
finish  sowing  the  field  before  the  darkness  comes. 
In  fact,  the  arrangement  of  forms,  colors,  and  light 
and  shade  has  made  a  strong  impression  on  the 
thinking  part  of  the  brain,  stirring  us  not  only  to 
observe,  but  to  draw  conclusions.  And  this,  of 
course,  is  what  Millet  meant  that  it  should  do. 

But  this  was  not  all  that  he  intended.  Most  peo- 
ple of  his  day  must  have  thought  it  was ;  for  nearly 
all  the  critics,  or  persons  who  are  supposed  to  be 
able  to  judge  of  the  value  of  a  picture,  and  nearly 
all  the  connoisseurs,  who  are  supposed  to  be  able  to 
appreciate  its  beauty,  turned  up  their  noses  and 
shrugged  their  shoulders.  "  This  is  horrible !  "  they 
exclaimed.  "  A  common  laborer  in  his  dirty  clothes, 
doing  his  miserable  work.  Ugh !  how  vulgar !  This 
is  not  art;  for  art  should  be  concerned  with  beauty. 
Why  does  not  the  fellow  paint  some  beautiful  girl 
in  beautiful  draperies?  Phew!  Take  the  picture 
away,  it  smells  of  the  farm." 

You  see  they  confined  their  criticisms  and  appre- 
ciation to  what  the  picture  was  about — its  subject; 

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and  because  they  did  not  like  the  subject,  they  con- 
demned the  picture.  They  got  no  further  than 
knowing  and  thinking,  they  did  not  permit  them- 
selves to  feel.  But  it  was  on  their  feelings  also  that 
Millet  wished  to  make  an  impression.  Through  the 
arrangement  of  line,  form,  color,  and  light  and  shade 
he  sought  to  stir  that  other  part  of  the  brain  to 
which  messages  are  telegraphed  by  the  senses,  with 
a  result  that  we  are  made  to  feel.  Let  us  analyse 
the  composition;  and  see  how  it  illustrates  the  prin- 
ciple that  we  have  been  discussing  of  balance,  and 
rhythmic  repetition,  and  contrast. 

We  will  begin  with  the  latter.  Note,  then,  how 
the  sloping  line  of  the  field  cuts  across  the  picture. 
This  diagonal  line  is  contrasted  with  the  perpen- 
dicular sides  of  the  picture,  and  with  the  upright 
direction  of  the  figure  of  the  man.  It  forms,  how- 
ever, another  contrast;  it  divides  the  light  from  the 
dark.  The  sun  has  gone  down  behind  the  slope;  so 
that,  while  the  sky  is  still  luminous  with  a  lovely 
glow,  the  ground  is  in  shadow,  dreary  and  heavy 
looking.  So,  too,  the  figure  of  the  man.  The  light 
is  at  his  backa  so  that  what  we  see  of  him  is  shrouded 
in  gloom.  Against  the  gloom  of  the  ground  his  fig- 
ure shows  comparatively  indistinctly,  but  the  upper 
part  stands  very  sharp  against  the  light.  There  is 
a  strong  contrast  between  its  heaviness  and  gloom 
and  the  lovely  radiance  of  the  waning  light;  while 
down  below  the  figure  looms  out  of  the  gloom  and 
heaviness,  as  if  it  were  a  part  of  them  that  had 
gathered  into  definite  shape.  Yes,  though  his  head 

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Naturalistic  Composition 

may  stand  against  the  sky,  the  man  is  part  of  the 
earth. 

Eight  away,  is  there  nothing  in  this  to  make  us 
feel?  Millet,  at  any  rate,  had  often  felt  the  poig- 
nancy of  contrast,  in  his  own  life  and  in  the  lives 
of  others.  He  had  known  what  it  was  to  see  his 
wife  and  children  short  of  food,  to  have  his  own 
stomach  empty,  while  his  mind  was  full  of  beautiful 
ideas,  and  his  cottage  full  of  pictures,  that  some  day 
men  would  buy,  but  not  yet.  He  had  seen  little 
bright  faced  children  standing  at  the  open  grave 
of  the  father  or  the  mother;  the  happy  young  bride 
at  the  altar,  and  among  the  congregation  the  young 
widow;  and  evening  after  evening,  as  the  darkness 
fell,  the  lonely  figures  in  the  field,  toiling  out  their 
short  lives,  whilst  behind  them  spread  the  everlasting 
beauty  of  the  sunset,  and  a  few  miles  off  in  Paris, 
where  he  came  from,  the  lights  were  gleaming  and 
people  were  making  ready  for  pleasure,  though 
there  too,  as  he  knew  from  his  own  experience,  peo- 
ple starved.  Yes,  it  is  through  experience  that  we 
learn  to  feel  deeply,  and  it  is  to  experience  that  the 
contrast  of  this  picture  appeals. 

When  we  recognise  that  by  this  contrast  of  light 
and  darkness,  Millet  sought  to  express  the  dreary 
routine,  day  in  day  out,  early  and  late,  of  the 
peasant's  lot  in  a  world  where  nature  is  so  beautiful, 
and  there  can  be  so  much  beauty  in  life,  we  may 
imagine  to  ourselves  what  would  be  the  effect  of 
raising  or  lowering  the  diagonal  line.  To  have  given 
more  lighted  space,  would  have  made  the  figure  stand 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

out  too  prominently  so  that  it  would  have  dominated 
the  scene,  and  the  scene  itself  would  have  seemed 
too  spacious.  Velasquez,  in  his  equestrian  portraits, 
kept  the  horizon  line  low,  so  that  Philip  IV,  for  ex- 
ample, or  his  minister,  Olivarez}  is  made  to  appear 
a  very  important  person  in  a  very  large  world.  But 
Millet  wished  us  to  feel  the  lowliness  of  the  peasant, 
bound  close  to  the  earth  in  very  narrow  surround^ 
ings.  Again,  to  have  raised  the  horizon  line,  would 
have  destroyed  the  balance  between  light  and  dark- 
ness, which  n^w  is  absolutely  true.  This  balance 
V  suggests  a  feeling  of  repose;  shall  I  say  of  acquies- 
cence in  the  necessity  of  the  contrast?  For  Millet 
did  not  consider  himself  a  reformer  whose  work  is 
to  set  things  right  and  to  do  away  with  contrasts; 
but  an  artist,  whose  aim  was  to  harmonise  the  con- 
trasts v  and  to  find  some  balance  between  the  lights 
and  darks  of  life ;  just  as  Stevenson  out  of  his  weak- 
ness and  strength  made  his^ife  a  beautiful  one. 

And  now  let  us  study  tine  lines  of  the  figure.  In 
the  first  place  you  will  agree  that  they  enclose  a  form 
which  is  unmistakably  that  of  a  man  sowing  grain. 
It  was  necessary  for  Millet  to  arrange  the  lines,  in 
some  way  that  should  convey  this  impression.  But 
there  are  many  other  ways  in  which  they  might  have 
been  arranged,  so  as  to  obtain  this  result.  Eor  in 
the  act  of  sowing  a  man  takes  many  positions  and 
any  one  of  these  would  have  done,  if  all  the  artist 
had  desired  was  to  make  us  know  that  the  man  was 
sowing.  But  Millet  wished  to  do  more. 

As  a  boy  he  toiled  in  his  father's  fields,  so  he  had 
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The  Sower.     J.  F.  Millet. 


Naturalistic 

a  fellow-feeling  for  the  peasants ;  and  as  he  watched 
them,  day  after  day  laboring  so  faithfully,  he  found 
a  big  idea  in  their  work.  It  was  something  like 
this — work  is  necessary,  and  to  do  our  own  share  of 
it  as  well  as  we  can  is  the  big  thing  for  each  of  us. 
And  the  oldest  work  of  all  and  the  most  necessary 
is  the  growing  of  the  wheat.  To-day  the  seed  is  laid 
in  rows  by  machine-drills;  but  in  Millet's  time  it 
was  scattered  by  hand,  just  as  it  had  been  since  man 
began  to  sow.  This  sower,  then,  that  he  watched 
was  a  descendant  of  a  long  line  of  sowers,  stretching 
back  to  the  beginning  of  civilisation ;  and  still  in  the 
fields  of  Barbizon  he  was  doing  his  humble  share 
of  the  world's  necessary  work.  Millet  felt  the  big- 
ness of  this  idea;  and  in  his  imagination  the  man 
was  no  longer  Jacques  or  Jean — a  sower ;  he  became 
"  The  Sower,"  a  type — a  big  heroic  type.  Then,  as 
Millet  felt  him  to  be,  so  he  set  to  work  to  paint  him, 
choosing  such  lines  as  would  convey  this  big  feeling 
to  us.  Observe,  first,  the  balance  of  the  figure:  how 
the  weight  of  the  body  is  planted  almost  equally  on 
both  feet.  If  you  try  to  put  yourself  in  the  position, 
you  will  find  that  you  can  raise  neither  foot  with- 
out moving  the  body.  If  you  wish  to  raise  the  back 
foot,  you  must  move  the  body  forward  till  the  weight 
is  on  the  right  foot ;  or,  if  you  would  raise  this  latter, 
you  must  move  the  body  back  till  the  weight  is  over 
the  left  foot.  The  center  of  gravity  or  of  mass  runs 
down  through  the  body  and  between  the  legs.  Now 
sway  your  body  backward  and  forward  a  few  times, 
and  then  bring  forward  the  left  leg  in  front  of  the 

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A-  Guide  to  Pictures 


right,  so  that  the  position  of  the  feet  is  reversed. 
Now  sway  again  forward  and  backward.  I  ask  you 
to  do  this  that  you  may  feel  how  freely  the  body 
moves  in  this  position.  And  I  ask  you  to  stride, 
that  you  may  feel  that  the  position  in  the  picture 
is  only  a  momentary  one,  leading  on  to  a  natural 
advance.  For  this  perfect  poise  of  the  body  on  the 
feet  is  not  a  stationary  one,  that  in  time  will  seem 
stiff,  but  part  of  a  moving  one,  that  has  the  freedom 
and  the  naturalness  of  life.  And  the  movement  is 
a  swift  one.  We  can  feel  it  is  so  from  the  length  of 
the  stride;  for  it  is  only  when  you  are  moving 
quickly,  that  you  can  take  long  strides,  and  still  pre- 
serve the  balanced,  rhythmic  swing  of  the  body. 

We  have  spoken  of  the  poise  of  the  body  on  the 
legs;  now  let  us  note  the  action  of  the  right  arm. 
The  action,  I  need  hardly  say,  begins  with  taking 
a  handful  of  grain  from  the  bag;  then  the  arm  is 
swung  back  to  the  right  to  its  full  extent,  and  then 
again  brought  back  to  the  bag.  Between  these  two 
points — that  of  the  bag  and  that  of  the  full  extent — 
the  arm  is  poised  in  motion,  just  as  the  action  of  the 
body  was  poised  between  the  backward  and  forward 
motion  of  the  legs.  We  can  feel  that  the  arm  is 
moving,  and,  at  this  instant  it  is  moving  backward, 
for  our  own  experience  when  we  walk  and  swing 
our  arms  naturally  is  that  each  arm  goes  back  as 
the  leg  on  that  side  goes  forward.  The  man's  arm 
will  reach  its  furthest  point  backward  when  he  brings 
his  full  weight  on  the  right  foot.  In  a  word,  the 
poise  of  the  arm  and  the  poise  of  the  leg  correspond. 

102 


Naturalistic  Composition 

They  present  an  example  of  repetition  of  balance. 
It  is  enforced,  you  will  observe,  in  the  composition 
by  the  arm  being  made  parallel  to  the  direction  of 
the  backward  leg.  This  is  another  instance  of  repe- 
tition; and  there  are  still  others:  the  repetitions  of 
the  waist  line,  the  shoulders,  and  the  hat  brim;  of 
the  bandage  on  the  left  leg,  the  line  from  the  shoul- 
der through  the  thigh,  the  apron,  hanging  over  the 
arm,  and  of  the  echo,  as  it  were,  of  these,  in  the  tail 
of  the  distant  ox  and  the  arm  of  the  driver.  These 
repetitions,  and  others  that  you  may  discover  for 
yourself,  help  to  bind  the  composition  together  and 
also  to  make  it  rhythmic. 

And  now  for  contrast,  we  have  noted  the  big  one 
made  by  the  diagonal  line,  dividing  the  composition 
into  light  and  dark.  Let  us  note  those  appearing  in 
the  figure.  First  there  is  the  big  contrast  of  the 
figure's  own  diagonal  line  from  the  shoulders  down 
through  the  right  leg.  It  is  contrasted  most  forcibly 
with  the  sides  of  the  picture,  the  horizon  line,  and 
the  direction  of  the  right  arm  and  the  left  leg.  The 
latter  are  practically  at  right  angles  to  the  figure — 
strongest  of  all  contrasts  of  line.  It  is  to  all  these 
vigorous  contrasts  that  the  energy  and  assertion  of 
the  figure  are  mainly  due.  But  there  are  other  con- 
trasts in  the  figure.  Do  you  notice  that  the  swing 
of  the  arm  brings  the  trunk  of  the  body,  or  the  torso, 
as  it  is  called,  along  with  it  ?  Swing  your  own  arm 
and  you  will  find  your  torso  following  its  direction. 
If  the  man's  arm  were  to  reach  its  full  extension, 
his  left  shoulder  would  appear  and  his  torso  would 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

front  us  nearly  full.  If  his  hand  should  reach  the 
bag,  the  right  shoulder  would  come  forward  until 
the  torso  would  be  seen  almost  in  profile.  However, 
neither  of  these  extremes  is  presented.  The  swing 
of  the  torso  is  poised  between  the  two.  But  do  you 
observe  that  the  swing  of  the  torso  and  arms  is 
across  the  path  of  direction  of  the  swing  of  the  legs  ? 
While  they  swing  forward  and  backward,  the  arms 
and  torso  swing  alternately  from  right  to  left  and 
left  to  right. 

Imitate  this  action  with  your  own  body,  step  for- 
ward briskly  with  a  swinging  stride  and  at  the  same 
time  swing  your  arms  and  torso.  If  you  feel  the 
exhilaration  of  the  action  as  I  think  you  will,  you 
will  realise  that  it  is  the  wonderful  way  in  which 
Millet  has  suggested  this  contrast  of  the  swing,  that 
makes  the  action  of  the  figure  so  stirring.  By  the 
contrast  of  its  lines,  it  expresses  energy;  by  the 
contrast  of  swing,  so  free,  so  rhythmic,  so  vigorous, 
it  lifts  us  to  enthusiasm. 

But  finally  observe  the  position  of  the  head  and 
the  direction  of  its  gaze.  While  below  it  the  torso 
and  arms  swing  from  side  to  side,  the  head  is  fixed, 
leaning  a  little  forward  in  the  direction  of  the  on- 
ward movement,  its  eyes  firmly  set  on  what  is  ahead. 
Within  the  head  is  the  brain  which  directs  all  the 
action  of  the  figure.  But  the  face  is  shadowed  over, 
and  through  the  shadow  the  features  appear  coarse 
and  heavy.  We  feel  that  the  brain,  though  prompt- 
ing the  man  to  do  his  work  to  the  utmost,  is  after 
all  a  dull  brain,  in  pitiful  contrast  to  the  vigor  of 

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Naturalistic  Composition 

the  body.  Heroic  though  the  figure  is  in  the  gran- 
deur of  its  free,  swift  movement,  as  grand,  if  you 
will  take  my  word  for  it,  as  a  Greek  statue,  yet  it 
is  but  that  of  a  humble  peasant,  unconscious  that 
he  is  doing  aught  but  that  which  he  has  to  do. 

There  you  have  the  idea  as  it  presented  itself  to 
the  imagination  of  Millet! 

"  The  Sower "  is  a  striking  illustration  of  the 
point  with  which  I  started  this  book ;  that  the  beauty 
of  a  picture  does  not  depend  upon  the  subject,  but 
upon  the  way  it  is  represented. 


105 


CHAPTER   X 

NATURALISTIC  COMPOSITION   (Continued) 

IN  The  Sower,  by  Millet,  we  found  that,  though 
the  composition  was  naturalistic,  it  was  based 
upon  the  classic  principle  of  rhythm  of  line.  We 
shall  not  discover  this  principle  in  the  present  pic- 
ture of  a  Young  Woman  Opening  a  Window.  The 
arrangement  of  the  figure  and  its  surroundings  is 
simply  natural. 

The  picture  is  by  Johannes  Yermeer  *  of  Delft, 
so  called  because  this  town  in  Holland  was  his  birth- 
place and  the  scene  of  his  life's  work.  Born  in  1632, 
he  is  one  of  those  famous  Dutch  artists  of  the  Seven- 
teenth Century,  of  whom  I  have  already  spoken. 
We  were  talking  of  landscape  painting  and  men- 
tioned that  in  this  century  the  art  branched  out  in 
two  directions.  Landscape  up  to  that  time  having 
been  used  as  a  background  for  figures,  became  then 
an  independent  art,  cultivated  for  its  own  sake ;  and 
the  artists  treated  it  in  two  ways.  On  the  one  hand, 
some  applied  the  principles  of  geometric  composition 
to  an  artificial  building  up  of  bits  of  nature  into 
what  is  called  the  formal,  or  classic  landscape ;  while 
other  painters  represented  the  natural  landscape 
1  Pronounced  Yo-hann-es  Fair-main 
106 


Naturalistic  Composition 

naturally.  These  latter  were  the  Dutchmen,  who 
treated  figures  also  in  the  same  realistic  spirit.  That 
is  to  say,  whether  they  painted  portraits  or  figure 
pictures  or  landscapes,  their  aim  was  to  represent 
the  actual  subject  as  they  really  saw  it.  They  did* 
not  substitute  an  artificial  arrangement  for  the  nat- 
ural appearance  of  people  and  things;  nor  did  they 
try  to  obtain  beauty  by  altering  and  improving  upon 
nature.  Their  motive  or  purpose  was  to  render  the 
beauty  that  is  actually  in  nature.  So,  for  the  most 
part,  they  chose  subjects  of  familiar  every  day  life. 

This  picture,  for  example,  represents  simply  a 
glimpse  of  home  life,  of  a  Dutch  girl  in  well-to-do 
circumstances.  Perhaps  the  artist  intended  to  make 
a  portrait  of  her ;  probably  his  intention  was  only  to 
paint  a  genre  picture,  that  is  to  say,  an  incident  of 
every  day  life.  ISFot  so  much,  however,  for  the  sake 
of  representing  the  incident,  as  of  making  it  con- 
tribute to  a  subject  of  abstract  beauty.  How  he  has 
done  this  I  hope  we  shall  see  presently.  Meanwhile, 
I  want  you  to  grasp  the  distinction  between  simply 
representing  an  incident,  as  you  or  I  might  have 
seen  it,  if  we  had  been  present,  and  Vermeer's  mo- 
tive of  using  the  incident  as  a  peg  on  which  to  hang 
some  beauty  of  light  and  color  and  texture.  I  mean, 
it  was  the  beauty  of  light  and  color  and  texture  that 
made  him  pleased  to  paint  this  picture;  and  prob- 
ably he  would  have  been  just  as  pleased  if  some 
other  girl  had  been  standing  there,  or  some  other 
objects  had  been  spread  upon  the  table. 

Perhaps  a  familiar  example  will  illustrate  this 
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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

distinction.  Two  people  start  off  for  an  afternoon's 
walk.  One  sets  out  because  he  wishes  to  call  upon 
a  friend  who  lives  on  the  other  side  of  the  wood. 
To  pay  this  call  is  the  object  of  his  walk;  for  the 
friend  is  building  a  new  house.  As  he  walks  along 
he  is  busy  wondering  how  far  it  is  advanced, 
whether  the  plasterers  have  finished  their  work;  and 
as  he  returns  home  he  is  thinking  about  the  house 
he  has  seen  and  how  he  himself,  when  he  builds  a 
house  of  his  own,  will  plan  it  differently.  In  fact, 
the  incident  of  his  friend's  being  engaged  in  build- 
ing is  what  interests  him,  and  has  been  throughout 
the  afternoon  the  motive  of  his  walk.  His  compan- 
ion, on  the  other  hand,  agrees  to  go  along  with  him, 
not  so  much  because  he  is  interested  in  the  house, 
although  he  is  to  some  extent,  but  mostly  because 
he  loves  a  walk.  He  enjoys  the  exhilaration  of  the 
exercise ;  he  is  fond  of  the  wood  through  which  they 
have  to  pass.  He  will  have  a  chance  to  hunt  for 
the  first  signs  of  spring — the  early  skunk-cabbage, 
the  shy  peep  of  the  violet  through  the  dead  leaves 
underfoot,  the  rose  blush  of  the  maples  overhead,  the 
piping  and  flicker  of  the  first  bird-arrivals  and  so 
on.  The  real  motive  of  his  walk  is  the  joy  of  ex- 
ercise and  of  the  beauties  met  with  on  the  way. 
Visiting  the  house  was  but  an  excuse. 

There  is  the  same  distinction  among  painters.  To 
some  the  representation  of  the  incident  is  the  main 
thing;  to  others,  the  rendering  of  the  beauties  which 
it  involves.  Vermeer,  like  the  other  Dutch  artists, 
of  the  Seventeenth  Century,  belonged  to  the  latter 

108 


Young  Woman  Opening  a  Window.     Johannes  Vermeer. 

(Property  of  The  Metropolitan  Museum  of  Art.) 


Naturalistic  Composition 

class.  Since,  however,  his  subject  is  the  peg  on 
which  he  hangs  his  arrangement  of  light  and  color, 
let  us  begin  by  examining  it. 

A  young  woman  is  standing  between  a  table  and 
a  window.  With  one  hand  she  opens  the  casement 
while  the  other  grasps  the  handle  of  a  brass  pitcher 
that  stands  in  an  ewer  of  the  same  material.  Per- 
haps she  is  going  to  water  some  flowers  that  are  out- 
side on  the  window  sill.  Her  costume  consists  of  a 
dark  blue  skirt,  buff-colored  bodice,  and  a  broad 
collar  and  hood-like  cap  of  thin  white  linen.  The 
table  is  covered  with  an  oriental  cloth,  on  which 
is  a  yellow  jewel  case,  while  over  the  blue  chair  lies 
a  cloak  of  lighter  blue.  On  the  gray  wall  hangs 
a  map.  This  and  the  table  cloth  may  remind  us, 
that  the  Dutch  of  that  period,  although  they  were 
fighting  for  their  political  liberty  against  Spain, 
found  means  to  build  ships  and  carry  on  trade  across 
the  sea  with  far  distant  countries.  Possibly  the  girl 
was  the  daughter  of  some  sea-captain  or  prosperous 
merchant. 

Anyhow  the  picture,  beside  being  a  beautiful 
painting,  is  very  interesting  to  us  to-day  as  an  illus- 
tration of  the  domestic  life  of  a  Dutch  girl  of  some 
two  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago.  And  the  same  in- 
terest belongs  to  all  the  old  genre  pictures.  They 
make  the  past  still  alive  to  our  eyes;  just  as  the 
genre  pictures  painted  to-day  will  show  some  future 
generation  how  we  lived.  But  this,  I  repeat,  was 
not  Vermeer's  first  thought.  On  the  other  hand,  I 
do  not  wish  you  to  think  that  he  was  not  himself 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

interested  in  the  subject  of  Ms  picture.  He  was,  I 
am  sure;  but  in  another  way.  He,  no  doubt,  ar- 
ranged the  figure  with  great  care  and  carefully  se- 
lected and  grouped  the  surrounding  objects.  But, 
in  placing  the  girl,  he  did  not  try  to  get  the  grace- 
ful lines  that  Raphael,  for  example,  would  have 
imagined.  Vermeer's  desire  was  to  keep  the  pose 
and  gesture  natural.  In  this  he  was  simply  follow- 
ing the  general  motive  of  the  artists  of  his  country 
and  of  that  time.  But  his  own  particular  motive  in 
representing  the  girl  in  the  act  of  opening  the  win- 
dow was  that  the  clear  outside  light  might  stream 
in  at  the  back  of  her  figure  and  blend  with  the  dim- 
mer light  of  the  interior. 

I  said  that  we  would  study  the  kind  of  beauty 
that  this  picture  possesses;  and  it  is  to  be  found 
in  the  rendering  of  the  light.  The  Italians,  busy 
with  their  grand  classic  compositions,  would  not 
have  thought  of  this.  Their  motive  was  the  beauty 
of  form,  arrayed  in  beautiful  draperies,  and  so  ar- 
ranged that  the  figures  should  produce  beautiful 
patterns  of  line  and  form.  To  make  a  motive  of  the 
beauty  of  natural  light  was  a  discovery  of  the  Dutch. 

They  were  artists,  you  see,  and  therefore  in  love 
with  beauty.  But  they  confined  themselves,  almost 
entirely,  to  real  subjects  of  every  day  life,  and  ac- 
cordingly had  to  find  out  the  beauty  that  may  be  in 
these  familiar  things.  And  it  was  not  long  before 
they  learned  how  much  the  beauty  of  things  depends 
upon  the  light  in  which  they  are  seen. 

Before  we  go  any  further  in  our  study  of  the 
110 


Naturalistic  Composition 

picture,  let  us  see  if  we  cannot  be  sure  of  this  from 
our  own  experience.  Whether  you  live  in  a  city  or 
in  the  country,  how  differently  you  feel  when  you 
start  out  in  the  morning,  according  as  the  day  is 
fine  or  not.  Under  a  bright  sky  everything  takes 
on  a  cheerfulness  that  is  communicated  to  our  own 
spirit.  Let  the  sky  become  downcast  and  the  appear- 
ance of  objects  becomes  dulled.  Often  too,  some 
familiar  object  that  we  have  passed  time  and  time 
again  without  particular  notice,  suddenly  attracts  us. 
How  beautiful !  we  exclaim.  If  we  try  to  discover  the 
reason  of  the  beauty,  we  shall  find  very  likely,  that 
it  is  due  to  some  effect  of  light  It  need  not  be  a 
bright  light,  on  the  contrary,  it  may  be  a  soft  light, 
such  as  wraps  itself  around  objects  like  a  gauzy 
veil,  when  the  sky  is  thick  with  vapor.  Do  you 
remember  that  line  of  Tennyson's — "  Waves  of  light 
went  over  the  wheat  "  ?  He  had  been  watching  a  field 
of  wheat,  spread  out  smoothly  like  a  pale  golden 
carpet  in  the  yellow  sunshine.  Suddenly,  a  soft 
breeze  passes  over  it,  and  as  the  stems  bend  their 
heavy  heads  of  grain,  and  recover  themselves,  ripples 
of  light  travel  across  the  field.  The  poet  notes  it  in 
his  memory,  for  a  future  poem.  So,  if  we  use  our 
eyes,  we  may  note  countless  examples  of  the  beauty 
which  is  added  to  the  simplest  things  by  light.  In 
fact,  the  changing  effect  of  light  will  correspond  to 
the  changing  expressions  that  pass  over  the  human 
face. 

The  Dutch  artists,  as  soon  as  they  became  really 
interested    in    the   nature    and   life    around    them, 

111 


A  Guide  to  Pictures 

quickly  recognised  this  fact,  and  made  it  the  chief 
motive  of  their  pictures.  They  were  no  longer  satis- 
fied with  mere  realism;  that  is  to  say,  to  make  the 
figure  and  the  objects  around  it  look  as  real  in  the 
pictures  as  they  did  in  actual  reality.  They  sought 
to  render  the  expression  of  which  these  objects  were 
capable,  under  the  influence  of  light.  If  you  do  not 
understand  this  I  think  you  will,  if  you  place  a 
bunch  of  flowers  in  some  dark  corner  of  the  room, 
look  at  it  a  little  while,  and  then  move  it  to  the 
window.  Now,  as  the  light  falls  upon  the  flowers 
and  shines  through  the  petals,  the  whole  bunch  is 
transfigured.  It  has  taken  on  a  new  appearance  of 
beauty.  Like  a  face  that  has  suddenly  lighted  up 
with  an  expression  of  happiness,  the  flowers  seem 
alive  with  radiance.  They  too,  have  their  expres- 
sion and  it  will  change  with  the  changing  of  light. 
For  look  at  them  again  toward  evening,  when  the 
light  is  low,  and  their  faces,  not  less  beautiful,  will 
show  a  quite  different  expression. 

Now  the  light  which  streamed  in  at  that  window 
in  Delft,  when  Vermeer  painted  this  picture,  was 
a  very  cool,  pure  light;  one  would  say,  from  seeing 
the  original  picture,  a  morning  light  in  Spring,  it 
is  so  pure  and  fresh  and  fragrant.  Yes,  one  can  even 
feel  the  fragrance  of  its  freshness,  so  exquisitely  has 
the  artist  suggested  to  us  the  impression  of  the 
lighted  air  that  steals  into  the  room,  filling  it  with 
purity.  See,  how  it  bathes  the  wall;  even  the  bare 
gray  becomes  radiant;  how  it  gleams  on  the  girl's 
shoulder,  and  filters  through  her  cap,  making  it  in 

112 


Naturalistic  Composition 

parts  transparent,  so  that  one  sees  the  background 
color  through  it.  Note  also,  how  it  roams  among  the 
objects  in  the  room,  caressing  the  under  part  of  the 
girPs  right  arm,  bringing  out  the  softness  and  plump- 
ness of  her  left  wrist ;  splashing  the  ewer  and  touch- 
ing the  pitcher,  the  table  cloth,  and  other  details 
with  glints  of  sparkle,  like  notes  of  gladness  in  a 
melody  of  tender  freshness. 

Even  in  the  reproduction  one  can  feel  the  fresh- 
ness that  pervades  the  room,  and  the  delicate  quality 
of  the  lighted  atmosphere  that  envelopes  the  figures 
and  fills  every  part  of  the  scene.  I  mean,  that  not 
only  is  this  effect  of  light  visible  to  our  eyes,  but  it 
also  stirs  in  us  a  sentiment  or  feeling  of  gladness 
and  refreshment.  Still  more  will  the  original,  if  you 
have  a  chance  of  seeing  it  in  the  Metropolitan 
Museum,  New  York,  where,  though  a  very  small 
picture,  it  is  one  of  the  gems  of  the  collection.  For 
there  you  will  feel  also  the  effect  of  the  color,  yel- 
low, gray,  and  various  hues  of  blue.  They  are  all 
cool  colors,  the  blues  especially,  and  very  pure  in 
hue,  which  increases  the  sensation  of  freshness. 

A  moment  ago  I  spoke  of  the  picture  as  being  like 
a  melody.  It  will  suggest  to  some  imaginations  the 
blitheness  of  a  spring-song.  The  fact  that  a  painting 
may  sometimes  seem  to  have  the  tunefulness  or  har- 
mony of  music  I  have  already  mentioned  in  a  pre- 
vious chapter.  The  reason  is  that  painting  and 
music,  although  different  arts,  have  certain  elements 
in  common.  Later  on,  when  we  shall  speal^of  color, 
I  shall  try  to  suggest  to  you  the  correspondence  be- 

113 


A  Guide  to  Pictures 

tween  sound  notes  in  music  and  color  notes  in  paint- 
ing. But  for  the  present  I  will  remind  you  of  an  ele- 
ment, common  to  both  arts,  of  which  we  have  already 
spoken — rhythm.  In  Raphael's  Jurisprudence,  I 
pointed  out  to  you  the  rhythm  of  movement  in  the 
figures.  It  flows  through  the  forms  of  the  figures 
in  rippling,  wave-like  lines  of  direction.  But  noth- 
ing of  that  sort  is  apparent  in  Vermeer's  picture. 
There  are  repetitions  and  contrasts  in  the  arrange- 
ment of  the  full  and  empty  spaces;  but  they  rep- 
resent rather  a  pattern  of  spots ;  we  are  not  conscious 
of  any  rhythm  of  line.  Then,  in  what  does  the 
rhythm  consist? 

If  you  think  of  that  line  of  Tennyson's — "  Waves 
of  light  went  over  the  wheat,"  you  may  perhaps  dis- 
cover for  yourselves  the  kind  of  rhythm  in  this  pic- 
ture. To  give  you  time  to  think  it  out,  before  I  tell 
you,  let  me  ask  you,  if  you  have  noticed  that  in  a 
flower-bed  in  the  garden  a  number  of  blossoms  of 
different  colors  will  "  dwell  together  in  unity,"  but 
if  you  pick  some  of  these  and  bring  them  indoors 
and  begin  to  arrange  them  in  a  vase,  the  colors  will 
seem  to  clash.  That  they  do  not  appear  to  clash  in 
the  flower  bed  is  because  the  out-of-door  light  envel- 
opes everything,  soothes  the  violence  of  the  colors 
and  brings  them  all  into  an  appearance  of  harmony. 
Similarly  in  this  picture,  the  light  streaming  through 
the  window  brings  all  the  different  spots  of  color 
into  a  single  harmony  of  effect.  They  are  no  longer 
separate  and  independent,  but  drawn  together  and 
united  by  the  veil  of  lighted  atmosphere.  Of  this 

114 


Naturalistic  Composition 

again,  we  will  speak  when  we  reach  the  subject  of 
color. 

But  the  rhythm  of  this  picture,  in  what  does  it 
consist  ?  Yes,  in  the  movement,  not  of  form,  but  of 
light.  Uniting  all  the  colors  into  a  single  harmony, 
it  flows  in  and  out  through  the  lighter  and  darker 
parts  of  the  composition;  sometimes  in  a  broad 
sweeping  flood,  as  on  the  wall;  sometimes  in  little 
pulses  of  movement,  as  it  leaps  from  point  to  point ; 
now  losing  itself  in  the  hollow  of  a  shadow,  then 
reappearing  in  the  gleam  of  a  fold;  all  the  while 
streaming  through  the  picture  in  a  continuous  ebb 
and  flow.  In  fact,  as  we  study  it,  we  gradually 
find  that  the  light  does  for  the  parts  of  this  com- 
position what  the  lines  of  direction  did  in  Raphael's 
— it  unites  them  in  a  rhythmic  movement. 

Do  not  be  disturbed,  if  at  first  reading  these  words 
convey  little  meaning  to  you ;  or  if  at  first  sight  you  do 
not  feel  the  rhythm  of  the  composition.  It  is  there, 
however,  and  some  day,  if  you  are  really  going  to  be 
a  student  of  pictures,  you  will  feel  it  yourself. 

For  the  present,  if  you  will  accept  my  word  for 
it,  I  wish  you  to  understand  that  this  rhythmic  ef- 
fect of  out-of-door  light  represented  a  new  motive 
in  painting.  The  Italians  of  the  great  period  did 
not  see  it.  It  was  the  discovery  of  the  Dutch 
realists,  those  artists  of  Holland  in  the  Seventeenth 
Century,  whose  study  was  the  real  appearances  of 
nature  and  life.1  Their  pictures  were  not  as  grand 

1  We  shall  find  it  was  discovered  also  by  the  Spanish  artist, 
Velasquez,  in  the  same  century. 

115 


A  Guide  to  Pictures 

as  the  Italians';  for  they  were  small  in  size,  and 
were  not  built  up  on  the  magnificently  formal  plan 
that  gives  such  a  dignity  and  distinction  to  the 
Italian  pictures.  Nor  are  their  subjects  so  heroic 
and  impressive.  They  represent  only  the  facts  of 
every  day  life.  Yet  they  have  a  great  beauty  of 
their  own,  because  they  rely  on  the  inexhaustible 
beauty  of  light. 

It  is  on  this  same  beauty  that  after  two  hundred 
years  artists  of  our  own  day  are  relying.  They 
have  gone  back  to  the  example  of  Yermeer  and  the 
other  Dutch  artists,  and  are  applying  it  to  the  study 
of  similar  subjects.  They  are  painting  nature  as  it 
shows  itself  to  them  in  its  envelope  of  lighted  atmos- 
phere. 


116 


CHAPTEE   XI 
THE  NATURALISTIC  LANDSCAPE 

WE  come  now  to  the  other  arm  of  the  Y,  about 
which  we  spoke  in  a  previous  chapter.  Land- 
scape had  been  used  as  a  background  to  the  fig- 
ures, until  in  the  Seventeenth  Century  some  artists 
began  to  make  it  the  chief  subject  of  their  pic- 
tures. But  no  sooner  was  landscape  painting  prac- 
tised as  a  separate  art  than  it  branched  into  two 
directions.  We  followed  one  of  these  and  saw  how 
Claude  Lorrain  invented  the  formal,  or  classic 
landscape;  taking  bits  of  nature,  some  from  one 
place,  some  from  another,  and  building  them  up  into 
an  artificial  composition,  which  he  made  more  grand 
by  the  addition  of  classic  architecture.  It  was  not 
unlike  the  way  in  which  a  handsome  house  is  built; 
the  materials, — stone,  wood,  marble,  and  so  on — 
are  brought  together  from  various  places,  hewed  to 
certain  shapes  designed  by  the  architect,  and  then 
put  together  according  to  the  rule  or  formula  of 
building.  The  main  difference  is  that,  though  the 
classic  landscape  does  not  represent  any  actual  spot 
in  nature,  it  still  bears  a  resemblance  to  nature. 
But  it  is  nature  worked  over  by  the  fancy  of  man, 
and  improved  according  to  his  own  idea  of  what  is 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

beautiful.  The  artist  did  not  paint  nature  because 
he  loved  it  as  it  isa  but  because  it  furnished  him 
with  material  for  making  a  handsome  picture.  And 
this  picture-making  use  of  landscape  continued  to  be 
popular  with  artists  and  the  public  well  on  into  the 
Nineteenth  Century. 

Meanwhile  the  other  branch  of  landscape  painting 
had  been  started  in  the  Seventeenth  Century  by  the 
Dutchmen.  They,  as  we  have  seen,  were  interested 
above  everything  in  themselves,  their  own  lives  and 
surroundings.  This  was  the  state  of  mind  of  the 
whole  people,  and  the  artists  gave  expression  to  it 
in  their  pictures.  They  too,  were  picture-makers, 
who  by  their  skill  of  painting  and  their  love  of 
beauty  made  their  pictures  beautiful  works  of  art. 
But  the  subjects  that  they  represented  were  seldom 
imaginary  ones.  They  painted  what  they  actually 
saw;  and  with  so  much  truth  that  their  art  has 
been  called  an  art  of  portraiture.  They  made  por- 
traits of  people,  portraits  of  the  outdoor  and  in- 
door life,  and  portraits  of  their  towns  and  harbors, 
and  of  the  country  that  surrounded  them.  So,  by 
comparison  with  the  formal  or  classic  landscape,  we 
may  call  their  landscapes  naturalistic,  for  they  rep- 
resented nature  as  it  actually  appeared  to  their  eyes. 

But  their  art  died  with  them.  As  soon  as  Holland 
had  secured  her  independence,  her  artists  began  to 
travel  to  foreign  countries,  especially  to  Italy. 
There  they  set  themselves  to  imitate  the  great  Ital- 
ians, and  so  far  as  landscape  was  concerned,  joined 
in  the  popular  taste  for  the  classic  kind.  It  was  not 

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Crossing  the  Brook.     J.  M.  W.  Turner. 


The  Naturalistic  Landscape 

until  a  hundred  years  later,  namely  at  the  end  of 
the  Eighteenth  Century,  that  an  English  artist,  Con- 
stable, revived  the  naturalistic  style  of  landscape. 
He  was  a  miller's  son,  whose  boyhood  had  been  spent 
amid  the  simple  loveliness  of  nature.  Later  he  went 
to  London  and  studied  painting ;  but  while  he  worked 
in  the  big  city,  his  heart  was  in  the  country,  and 
he  suddenly  made  up  his  mind  to  go  back  to  the 
old  scenes,  and  paint  what  he  knew  and  loved.  He 
had  seen  some  of  the  landscapes  of  the  old  Dutch- 
men, and  resolved  that  he  would  do  what  they  had 
done.  In  his  own  words,  he  would  be  a  "  natural 
painter." 

It  was  not  long  before  the  example  of  Constable 
led  some  of  the  younger  French  artists  to  study  the 
old  Dutch  pictures  in  the  Louvre.  They  were  dis- 
satisfied with  the  methods  of  painting  upheld  by  the 
older  artists.  It  seemed  to  them  a  waste  of  time  to 
set  up  a  model  in  a  studio,  and  then,  instead  of 
drawing  it  as  they  saw  it,  to  correct  it  according  to 
some  standard  of  perfection.  Nor  did  they  find  any 
interest  in  putting  a  number  of  such  figures  into 
artificial  groups,  in  order  to  build  up  some  grand 
composition,  supposed  to  represent  some  classical 
subject  or  story  of  the  old  time.  They  were  full  of 
interest  in  the  life  of  their  own  time,  which  was  the 
period  following  the  Revolution,  when  Prance  felt 
young  again  and  vigorous,  and  the  young  artists 
and  poets  and  fiction-writers  were  eager  to  express 
in  their  work  their  joy  in  the  reality  of  life.  When 
life  was  so  real  and  so  full  of  promise,  why  should 

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they  look  back  to  the  times  of  the  great  Italians  and 
occupy  themselves  with  the  artificial  and  make- 
believe  ? 

Among  these  younger  men  was  one,  Theodore 
Rousseau.  He  was  not  only  independent  in  char- 
acter and  determined  to  see  things  with  his  own 
eyes  and  to  represent  them  as  he  saw  them  and  felt 
them,  but  he  had  a  great  love  of  nature.  This  led 
him  away  from  the  city  into  the  country;  where  he 
studied  the  skies  and  the  trees,  and  all  the  objects 
of  the  landscape  with  an  ever  increasing  love  and 
knowledge,  until  he  came  to  know  nature,  as  few 
have  done,  and  to  feel  toward  it,  as  a  man  feels  to- 
ward that  which  he  loves  best  in  all  the  world.  His 
favorite  spot  in  nature  was  that  which  surrounds 
the  Palace  of  Fontainebleau,  an  ancient  residence 
some  thirty  miles  from  Paris,  of  the  kings  of 
France.  It  is  a  rolling  tract  of  ground,  broken  up 
with  rocky  glens  and  thick  with  forest  trees,  espe- 
cially the  oak.  On  the  outskirts  of  this  enchanting 
garden  of  wildness,  in  the  little  village  of  Barbizon, 
Rousseau  made  his  home,  and  around  him  gathered 
other  artistsA  fascinated  by  the  beauty  of  nature. 
Among  them  was  the  Jean  Francois  Millet  whose 
picture,  The  Sower,  we  have  already  studied.  He 
for  the  most  part  painted  the  peasants,  working  in 
the  fields  or  tending  their  flocks;  but  the  others, 
among  them  Dupre,  Corot,  and  Diaz,  painted  the 
landscape,  while  Troyon  introduced  cows  into  his 
pictures  and  Jacque,  sheep.  With  all  of  them  the 
motive  was  to  represent  nature  as  they  saw  and  felt 

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The  Naturalistic  Landscape 

it.  They  are  known  as  the  Fontainebleau-Barbizon 
group  of  artistSi  and  their  example  has  had  very 
great  influence  on  modern  art.  I  shall  speak  of  it 
presently ;  meanwhile  will  continue  the  story  of  nat- 
uralistic landscape. 

It  is  a  very  interesting  fact  that  while  these 
French  artists  were  going  straight  to  nature  for  their 
subjects  and  inspiration,  some  American  artists, 
knowing  nothing  of  the  Frenchmen,  were  doing  the 
same  thing.  A  similar  love  of  nature  and  longing 
to  paint  it  as  they  saw  and  felt  it  drew  them  from 
the  city  to  the  beautiful  spots  that  border  on  the 
Hudson  River.  Their  leader  was  Thomas  Cole,  who 
made  his  headquarters  among  the  hills  and  valleys, 
the  waterfalls  and  luxuriant  vegetation  of  the  ro- 
mantic Catskills.  Other  names  are  those  of  Thomas 
Doughty,  Asher  B.  Durand,  John  F.  Kensett. 
Sometimes  they  painted  the  grander  aspects  of  the 
scenery;  the  broad  Hudson  sweeping  past  its  head- 
lands, or  the  lakes  with  their  girdle  of  mountains; 
but  quite  as  often  the  simpler  loveliness  of  smiling 
meadows  and  cosy  farms.  But  always  with  the  sin- 
cere wish  to  represent,  as  faithfully  as  they  could, 
the  natural  beauty  that  they  loved. 

Gradually,  however,  as  the  country  expanded 
Westward  and  the  pioneer  spirit  of  the  nation  was 
aroused,  American  artists  began  to  attempt  bigger 
subjects.  Church,  Bierstadt,  and  Thomas  Moran 
attacked  the  colossal  wonders  of  the  Yellowstone  and 
the  Eockies.  It  was  no  longer  the  beauty  of  nature 
that  inspired  them,  so  much  as  its  marvelousness 

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and  immensity.  As  many  people  believe,  they  tried 
to  do  something  that  is  beyond  the  power  of  paint- 
ing to  express.  For  on  the  comparatively  tiny  space 
of  their  canvasses  they  did  succeed  in  expressing 
some  of  the  appearances  of  nature's  grandeur,  but 
they  hardly  made  you  feel  it.  I  believe  myself  it  is 
impossible  that  they  should;  for  an  artist  can  only 
make  you  feel  in  his  picture  something  of  what  he 
himself  has  felt;  and  he  must  have  thoroughly  mas- 
tered his  own  feeling  before  he  can  express  it.  But 
in  the  presence  of  the  stupendous  works  of  nature, 
as  far  as  my  experience  goes,  the  feeling  masters 
ourselves.  Amid  the  vastness  of  the  height  and 
depth  and  breadth  and  the  grandeur  and  glory  and 
marvel  of  it  all,  our  spirit  is  swept  out  of  us.  We 
see  the  mighty  volume  of  water  coming  over 
Niagara  and  hear  the  roar  of  its  might;  but  not  as 
we  gaze  into  the  face  of  a  friend  and  listen  to  the 
voice  that  we  have  learned  to  know  and  love  so  well. 
In  the  one  case  our  feeling  is  all  brought  to  a  cen- 
ter of  attraction,  in  the  other  it  is  caught  away  and 
carried  beyond  our  comprehension.  We  can  only 
lose  ourselves  in  wonder. 

Well,  artists  discovered  the  truth  of  this.  Con- 
stable and  Rousseau  lead  the  way,  and  now  it  is  the 
usual  habit  of  the  landscape  artists  to  study  nature 
as  one  studies  the  face  and  form,  the  expression 
and  action  of  a  friend.  One  cannot  know  a 
number  of  friends  as  intimately  as  one  or  two. 
So  they  have  confined  their  pictures  to  the  few 
and  simple  aspects  of  nature;  one  little  fragment 

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The  Naturalistic  Landscape 

at  a  time,  studied  with  loving  intimacy  and  rep- 
resented with  the  faithfulness  of  sincere  and  thor- 
ough knowledge.  In  doing  so,  they  have  learned 
like  Johannes  Vermeer  and  other  Dutch  artists  of 
the  Seventeenth  Century,  that  much  of  the  beauty 
and  almost  all  the  expression  on  the  face  of  nature 
are  due  to  the  effects  of  natural  light.  Light  has 
become  the  special  study  of  the  modern  painters  of 
the  naturalistic  landscape.  And  they  have  carried 
it  further  than  the  other  artists  did.  Helped  by 
the  scientific  men,  who  have  examined  into  the  color 
of  light,  the  modern  artist  has  found  out  how  to 
represent  a  great  variety  of  the  effects  of  light: 
cool  or  warm  light,  the  light  at  a  particular  hour 
of  the  day,  at  a  particular  season  of  the  year,  and 
in  a  particular  kind  of  weather.  In  fact,  the  light 
that  he  represents  in  his  pictures  is  a  faithful  ren- 
dering of  some  one  of  the  countless  conditions  of 
natural  light 

You  remember  how  the  light  in  Vermeer's  pic- 
ture drew  all  the  parts  of  the  composition  into  at 
harmonious  whole  and  gave  it  rhythm.  So  too,  in 
these  modern  naturalistic  landscapes  the  artist  has 
ceased  to  depend  upon  line  and  form  in  making  the 
composition.  The  latter  is  now  rather  an  arrange- 
ment of  masses  of  lighted  color.  We  will  talk  more 
about  this  when  we  come  to  color;  for  the  present, 
it  is  enough  to  remember  that  we  must  not  expect 
to  find  in  modern  naturalistic  landscapes  the  same 
handsome  patterns  of  composition  that  we  find  in 
the  classical.  The  modern  have  less  dignity,  but 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

a  more  intimate  charm.  We  do  not  stand  apart 
from  the  scene  and  admire  it;  we  rather  enter  in 
to  it  and  enjoy  it.  It  is  something  with  which  we 
are  familiar  in  nature,  but  we  are  made  to  feel  a 
greater  beauty  in  it  through  the  personal  feeling 
that  the  artist  has  put  into  his  work.  The  French 
have  a  term  for  this  kind  of  landscape,  which  well 
expresses  the  artist's  motive  and  the  feelings  which 
his  picture  inspires  in  us.  They  call  it  the  "  pay- 
sage  intime."  *  Literally  translated  this  means  "  in- 
timate landscape " ;  but  it  may  be  rendered  more 
freely  a  landscape  in  which  we  recognise  how  in- 
timately the  artist  has  studied  his  subject. 

I  have  given  you  a  sketch  of  the  growth  of  nat- 
uralistic landscape  in  the  Seventeenth  Century  up 
to  our  own  day,  when  this  branch  of  painting  has 
become  fully  as  important  as  that  of  figure  subjects. 
Now  let  me  briefly  describe  the  change  that  has 
taken  place  in  the  motive  of  the  landscape  painter. 

The  motive,  or  aim  of  the  early  Dutchmen  was 
to  make  their  pictures  resemble  as  much  as  possible 
the  actual  landscape.  They  were,  as  I  have  said, 
"  portraits  "  of  the  natural  surroundings.  In  their 
desire  that  the  portraits  should  be  lifelike  these  ar- 
tists painted  in  as  many  of  the  details  as  they  could. 
Moreover  their  point  of  view  was  objective.  By 
"  point  of  view "  I  mean  the  way  in  which  they 
looked  at  the  landscape ;  and  I  call  it  "  objective," 
because  they  looked  at  it  simply  as  an  object  in 
1  Pronounced  pa-ee-sahje  an-teem. 
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The  Naturalistic  Landscape 

front  of  them  to  be  painted  as  nearly  as  possible 
lifelike.  This  is  the  usual  point  of  view  of  the 
modern  photographer.  You  go  to  him  to  have  your 
portrait  taken.  He  poses  you  as  an  object  in  front 
of  his  camera.  His  aim  is  to  make  a  portrait  that 
will  be  like  you,  and  will  also  please  you  because  it 
is  a  good-looking  picture.  He  will  do  the  same  for 
the  next  person  that  comes  to  him,  and  for  the 
next,  and  so  on.  All  of  them  are  simply  objects 
to  be  photographed.  He  has  no  personal  feeling 
toward  any  of  them;  his  point  of  view  is  objective. 
But,  suppose  he  makes  a  portrait  of  his  own 
child.  He  will  wish  it  to  be  more  than  a  likeness 
that  any  one  would  recognise.  He  wants  it  to  be 
a  reminder  in  after  years,  when  she  is  grown  up 
and  changed,  of  how  she  used  to  look  as  a  little 
one,  in  moments  when  to  her  mother  and  himself 
she  seemed  more  than  ever  a  darling.  To  him,  you 
see,  she  is  not  merely  an  object  to  be  photographed ; 
his  point  of  view  towards  his  own  child  is  not  ob- 
jective; on  the  contrary  it  is  influenced  by  his  per- 
sonal love  for  her;  the  picture  is  to  be  a  likeness 
plus  something  more — a  reflection  of  his  own  feel- 
ing. This  personal  kind  of  point  of  view  is  called 
"  subjective,"  the  opposite  to  objective.  Perhaps 
you  will  understand  the  difference  between  the  two 
more  clearly  by  the  following  sentence :  "  The  pho- 
tographer photographs  Mrs.  X."  The  photographer 
is  the  subject  of  the  verb,  photographs,  "  Mrs.  X." 
is  the  object.  In  this  case  the  object  is  of  more 
importance  than  the  subject  because  it  is  Mrs.  X, 

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•who  pays  the  money  and  has  to  be  considered.  But 
change  the  words  in  this  way — "  The  father  photo- 
graphs his  little  one."  Now,  so  far  as  the  taking 
of  the  photograph  is  concerned,  the  father  is  the 
more  important.  He  is  the  subject  of  the  verb,  the 
one  who  is  going  to  do  something  and  do  it  his  own 
way,  so  as  to  represent  something  which  he,  the  sub- 
ject, has  in  his  mind.  His  point  of  view  is  entirely 
his  own — the  subjective.  Observe  how  this  will 
affect  the  way  in  which  he  takes  the  photograph. 

The  little  one  has  just  come  in,  we  will  say,  from 
a  romp  in  the  meadow.  Her  hair  is  tumbled  and 
the  light  plays  through  the  silky  strands;  there  is 
a  sparkle  of  sunshine  in  her  eyes;  her  lips  are 
parted  in  a  sunny  smile  as  she  stretches  out  to  her 
father  a  podgy  hand,  tightly  clasping  a  bunch  of 
daisies.  "  Little  love  "  he  thinks  to  himself,  "  what 
a  picture !  "  He  seizes  his  camera,  and  tells  her  to 
stand  still  a  minute.  What  is  it,  do  you  think  that 
he  is  going  to  try  and  catch?  I  need  hardly  say  it 
is  the  radiance  in  her  face.  Perhaps  her  podgy 
hand  too;  but  first  and  chiefly  that  expression  of 
happiness  and  love;  for  it  is  an  echo,  as  it  were,  of 
the  happiness  and  love  that  he  feels  in  his  own 
heart  toward  her.  If  he  succeed,  the  picture  will 
be  as  much  an  expression  of  his  own  subjective  feel- 
ing toward  the  child,  as  of  the  child  herself. 

If  you  see  what  I  mean  you  can  now  begin  to  un- 
derstand how  Constable,  and,  even  more,  Rous- 
seau and  the  other  Fontainebleau-Barbizon  artists 
looked  at  nature.  No  longer  an  objective  point  of 

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The  Naturalistic  Landscape 

view,  like  the  old  Dutchmen's,  it  was  a  subjective 
one.  To  them  nature  was  not  merely  an  object  of 
which  to  make  a  portrait  It  was  something  they 
loved,  and,  because  they  loved  it,  they  painted  it, 
and  in  such  a  way  that  their  pictures  embodied  the 
feeling  which  they  had  for  nature.  They  are  full 
of  the  artist's  personal  feeling,  or  as  it  is  sometimes 
called,  sentiment.  A  landscape  of  Rousseau's  sets 
our  imagination  working.  '  It  may  represent  an  oak 
tree  and  a  rocky  boulder,  half  hidden  in  ferns  and 
vines,  some  little  spot  in  the  forest  of  Fontainebleau. 
As  we  look  at  it  we  become  more  and  more  con- 
scious of  the  strength  and  vigor  of  the  tree;  the 
firmness  of  its  huge  trunk,  the  mighty  muscles  of  its 
brawny  arms,  the  grip  which  it  has  upon  the  ground", 
and  our  imagination  may  begin  thinking  of  the 
roots  hidden  below  the  ground.  While  the  branches 
spread  out  to  the  sunshine  and  the  air,  the  unseen 
roots  reach  out  and  grip  the  soil  and  grapple  with 
the  rocks,  anchoring  firmly  the  tree  against  the 
storms  of  weather  and  time.  And  perhaps  we  begin 
to  feel,  as  Rousseau  himself  did,  that  the  oak  is  a 
symbol  of  the  might  of  nature ;  and  how  she  silently 
works  on  regardless  of  the  changes  that  happen  in 
the  lot  of  comparatively  short-lived  men.  Or  we 
look  at  one  of  Corot's  pictures  of  the  twilight,  in 
which  the  trees  seem  to  have  sunk  asleep  in  blurs 
of  shade  against  the  pale,  faint  light  that  is  fading 
from  the  sky;  and  the  hush  and  tenderness  of  the 
daily  miracle  of  nature's  rest  steals  over  our  spirits. 
It  is  as  if  we  were  listening  to  the  pensive  melody 

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of  some  sweet  lyrical  poem,  very  gently  and  rever- 
ently read;  such  a  one,  perhaps,  as  Longfellow's 
"Hymn  to  the  Night."  On  the  other  hand,  to  re- 
ceive an  impression  like  that  of  Rousseau's  picture, 
we  must  choose  a  poem  that  tells,  not  of  rest,  but  of 
the  grandeur  of  human  effort,  and  must  read  it  in 
a  strong  voice  and  confidently,  as  if  we  were  sure 
that  to  be  strong  and  faithful  to  the  end  was  a 
grand  thing. 

Indeed,  so  many  landscapes,  not  only  by  the 
Fontainebleau-Barbizon  artists,  but  also  by  modern 
men  who  are  following  in  their  footsteps,  are  full 
of  the  suggestion  of  poetry,  and  we  speak  of  them 
as  poetic  landscapes.  This  does  not  mean  that  they 
illustrate  any  particular  poem,  but  that  they  affect 
one's  imagination  in  somewhat  the  same  way  as 
poetry  does.  The  reason  is  that  such  artists  have 
the  spirit  of  poets.  For  nature  arouses  in  them 
deep  emotions,  and  their  pictures,  like  the  poet's 
verses,  not  only  describe  the  beauty  of  nature,  but 
express  the  sentiment,  or  feeling,  of  their  own  souls. 

On  the  other  handa  you  must  not  expect  to  find 
this  suggestion  of  poetry  in  all  modern  naturalistic 
landscape.  There  are  still  artists  whose  point  of 
view,  like  that  of  the  old  Dutchmen-,  is  objective. 
They  are  content  to  paint  the  beauty  of  nature 
simply  as  it  shows  itself  to  their  eyes.  Nor  need 
we  argue  as  to  which  is  the  better  way,  this,  or  the 
subjective  point  of  view.  We  may  prefer  the  one  or 
the  other ;  though,  perhaps,  it  is  better  for  us  to  keep 
our  minds  open  to  the  beauties  of  both. 

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o 

ap 

m 

I 


CHAPTER   XII 
FORM  AND  COLOR 

WHEX  we  began  to  speak  about  composition 
we  continually  used  the  words  "  line  and 
form."  Gradually,  however,  as  we  left  the  subject 
of  formal  composition  and  talked  of  naturalistic 
composition,  we  found  ourselves  substituting  the 
words  "  colored  masses." 

It  would  seem  then  as  if  there  were  a  distinction 
between  these  two  things ;  that  form  was  on  one  side 
of  the  fence  and  color  on  the  other.  Yet  that  would 
contradict  our  experience;  for  we  know  that  every- 
thing which  has  a  form  or  shape,  visible  to  the  eye, 
has  also  color  that  we  can  sea  And  most  things 
that  have  color  are  seen  to  have  a  shape  or  form. 
Not  all;  for  example,  when  the  sky  is  a  cloudless 
blue,  or  when  we  gaze  over  a  distant  expanse  of 
sea.  Still,  as  a  general  experience,  color  and  form 
are  identical.  The  face  of  a  friend — you  recognise 
it  by  its  color  as  well  as-  by  the  form  of  the  features ; 
and,  should  you  have  the  sorrow  of  looking  upon 
that  face  when  it  is  dead,  the  change  in  the  color 
would  make  you.  recognise  the  once  familiar  fea- 
tures as  strangely  different.*' 

Yet,  notwithstanding  the  identity  of  form  and 
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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

color,  we  find  a  certain  separation  between  the  two, 
when  we  come  to  study  pictures.  The  reason  is  that 
some  artists  are  more  sensitive  to  form,  others  to 
color.  As  I  have  already  said,  an  artist  paints  only 
the  particular  impression  of  an  object  which  his 
eye  receives.  Every  eye  has  its  own  particular  way 
of  seeing.  Even  the  eye,  most  sensitive  to  form, 
will  not  see  it  as  other  eyes  will;  nor  will  any  one 
color  st'em  the  same  to  every  eye  that  is  chiefly  in- 
terested in  color.  This  is  only  another  way  of  say- 
ing that  the  varieties  in  nature  are  inexhaustible. 
Nevertheless,  although  no  two  elm  trees  are  exactly 
alike,  all  elm  trees  are  sufficiently  similar  to  be  rec- 
ognised at  once  as  elm  trees.  So  with  artists,  some 
group  themselves  as  painters  of  form;  others,  of 
color.  In  the  old  Italian  days  this  distinction 
separated  the  artists  of  Florence  from  those  of 
Venice.  The  Florentines — Leonardo  da  Vinci, 
Michelangelo,  Raphael,  among  the  greatest — were 
masters  of  form;  the  Venetians,  especially  in  the 
persons  of  Giorgione,  Titian,  Tintoretto,  and  Paul 
Veronese,  were  masters  of  color.  The  one  group 
saw  especially  the  shapes  of  things,  the  other  saw 
the  world  as  an  arrangement  of  spots  or  masses  of 
color. 

The  Florentines,  in  consequence  of  their  interest 
in  form,  took  great  pains  with  the  outlines  of  their 
figures.  The  outlines  were  clearly  defined;  in  the 
mural  paintings  the  figures  were  enclosed  by  an 
actual  line;  and  always  the  figure  shows  distinctly 
against  the  background.  For,  having  drawn  the 

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Form  and  Color 

figure  very  carefully,  the  artist  did  not  let  the  color, 
that  was  afterwards  laid  on,  lap  over  the  line  or 
interfere  with  the  subtle  undulations  of  the  outline. 
They  were  in  fact,  a  school  of  great  draughtsmen, 
who  relied  principally  on  the  beauty  and  vigor  of 
the  drawing.  The  Venetians,  however,  were  great 
colorists,  relying  on  color;  and  may  be  spoken  of 
as  painters  rather  than  draughtsmen.  Yet  they  too, 
of  course,  were  masters  of  drawing.  They  could 
represent  the  action  of  the  figure  as  well  as  the 
Florentines,  but  unlike  the  latter,  did  not  care  for 
the  clear  outline.  On  the  contrary,  they  softened 
or  blurred  the  outline  slightly,  in  closer  imitation 
of  nature. 

If,  for  example,  you  look  carefully  at  a  tree,  you 
will  not  find  that  its  shape  is  enclosed  by  a  hard 
line.  The  light  creeps  round  the  edges  of  the  trunk 
and  of  the  masses  of  foliage  in  such  a  way  that  the 
outlines  are  softened  or  slightly  blurred.  It  is  the 
same  with  a  figure  seated  in  a  room;  here  and 
there  its  edges  may  seem  sharply  cut  out  against 
the  background,  but  in  other  parts  the  edges  will 
seem  to  melt  into  the  background.  In  other 
words,  as  we  look  at  the  figure,  what  we  are  most 
conscious  of  is  not  its  outline,  but  its  mass  of  color 
in  relation  to  the  other  masses  of  color  that  sur- 
round it. 

.  !Now,  this  distinction,  between  the  way  in  which 
the  Florentines  and  the  Venetians  saw  and  repre- 
sented objects,  still  appears  in  modern  art.  In  fact, 
ever  since  the  days  of  the  great  Italians  there  have 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

been  artists  who  relied  on  drawing  and  artists  who 
relied  on  color.  For  over  a  hundred  years  the  im- 
portance of  drawing  has  been  upheld  by  the  great 
school  of  art  in  Paris  maintained  by  the  French 
government  One  of  its  famous  teachers,  Ingres, 
used  to  tell  his  pupils  "  form  is  everything,  color 
is  nothing."  Perhaps  he  only  meant  by  this  that, 
as  long  as  they  were  pupils,  the  only  necessary  thing 
for  them  to  think  about  and  learn  to  represent  was 
form.  Because  to  draw  well  is  so  important  for 
any  artist,  and  it  is  a  thing  that  can  be  thoroughly 
taught  and  learned.  The  French  school  takes  as 
its  standard  of  excellence  the  perfect  forms  of  clas- 
sic sculpture  and  the  great  works  of  the  Florentine 
artists.  Although  the  student  may  be  drawing 
from  a  living  model  whose  form  is  not  perfect,  he 
is  taught  to  correct  the  imperfections  of  this  or  that 
part,  in  order  that  the  figure,  as  it  appears  in  his 
drawing,  may  be  as  near  as  he  can  get  it  to  classic 
perfection.  But  color,  as  we  shall  see  presently,  is 
so  much  a  matter  of  each  person's  feeling,  that  it 
is  impossible  to  reduce  the  teaching  of  it  to  any 
method  or  standard.  So  perhaps  that  is  what  In- 
gres had  in  mind.  He  meant  that,  for  the  time 
being,  his  students  should  consider  form  to  be 
everything,  color  nothing. 

On  the  other  hand  it  is  generally  understood  that 
he  meant  much  more  than  this,  that  he  was  telling 
his  pupils  what  he  himself  considered  to  be  the 
whole  duty  of  an  artist.  Let  us  try  and  enter  into 
his  point  of  view. 

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Form  and  Color 

I  can  imagine  some  of  my  readers  saying  that 
the  phrase,  "  form  is  everything ;  color,  nothing," 
is  nonsense;  because  color  plays  so  important  a  part 
in  our  enjoyment  of  sight  Just  think  what  a 
dreary  world  it  would  be,  if  everything,  for  in- 
stance, were  a  uniform  gray!  Quite  true,  and  In- 
gres probably  would  have  agreed.  As  a  man,  he  no» 
doubt  enjoyed  the  pleasures  of  color.  But  it  was 
as  an  artist  that  he  was  speaking.  He  was  stating 
what  he  believed  to  be  the  proper  subject  of  his  own  t 
art 

In  the  first  place  he  was  evidently  one  of  those 
artists  who  see  the  shape  rather  than  the  color  of 
things;  to  whom  form  makes  an  irresistible  appeal. 
In  the  second  place — and  mark,  for  this  is  very  im- 
portant— he  was  not  thinking  of  how  things  appear 
in  the  actual  world,  but  how  they  should  be  repre- 
sented in  art  He  was  one  of  those  artists  who  are 
not  interested  in  naturalistic  painting;  who  do  not 
profess  to  paint  nature.  On  the  contrary,  like  the 
great  Italians,  he  only  borrowed  from  nature  certain 
materials  in  order  to  build  them  up  into  a  formal 
composition  of  his  own  creation.  He  would  have 
told  you  that  he  was  not  representing  the  works  of 
nature  but  creating  for  himself  a  totally  different 
thing — a  work  of  art. 

On  the  other  hand,  many  artists  will  reply,  that 
the  work  of  art  need  not  be  a  totally  different 
thing.  That  they  themselves,  like  the  Dutch  of  the 
Seventeenth  Century  and  all  the  modern  painters 
of  the  naturalistic  composition,  combine  the  two. 

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It  is  by  representing  nature,  that  they  create  a  work 
of  art. 

Here,  you  see,  is  a  sharp  conflict  of  points  of 
view.  One  group  of  artists,  loving  nature,  desires 
to  represent  it;  the  other,  perhaps  not  loving  nature 
less,  certainly  loves  art  more.  This  latter  group, 
therefore,  tries  to  improve  on  nature,  and  to  use  it 
only  for  the  creation  of  something  that  it  feels  to 
be  different  and  superior  to  nature.  While  the  one 
set  of  men  wed  nature  to  art,  the  other  divorce  art 
from  nature.  Between  the  two  there  is  a  Great 
Divide,  which  no  amount  of  talking  can  bridge  over. 
The  only  conclusion  to  be  reached  is  that  there  is 
right  on  both  sides.  For  the  one  group,  because  of 
the  kind  of  men  composing  it,  its  own  way  is  the 
right  way;  and  for  the  other,  for  the  same  reason, 
its  way.  We,  as  lookers  on  at  the  dispute,  will  do 
well  to  learn  to  see  the  beauty  in  both  kinds  of 
picture. 

You  may  as  well  know  the  names  by  which  the 
two  points  of  view  are  known.  With  one,  the 
naturalistic,  we  have  already  become  acquainted. 
The  other  is  called  by  the  artists  who  practise  it  the 
"  idealistic."  They  will  tell  you  that  they  paint 
"  ideal "  subjects.  By  those,  however,  who  dis- 
agree with  them,  their  point  of  view  and  method  are 
apt  to  be  called  Academic. 

The  word  ideal,  used  in  this  sense,  has  the  mean- 
ing "  more  perfect  than  in  real  life."  When  a  person 
says :  "  The  ideal  way  to  spend  a  summer  holiday  " 
— we  know  even  before  he  utters  the  next  words, 

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Form  and  Color 

"  "would  be,"  that  he  is  going  to  tell  us  something 
that  he  does  not  expect  to  enjoy.  It  is  how  he 
would  have  things,  if  he  could  arrange  them  ac- 
cording to  his  own  idea  of  perfection.  JSTow  this 
is  what  the  artist  means  when  he  calls  his  picture 
an  ideal  one. 

Personally,  I  do  not  like  this  use  of  the  word, 
because  it  seems  to  imply  that  this  kind  of  picture 
is  superior  to  the  other.  And  the  artists  who  paint 
this  kind  of  picture  believe  that  it  is;  we,  however, 
who  are  simply  students  of  pictures,  longing  to  en- 
joy the  beauty  of  all  kinds  of  motive  and  ways  of 
painting,  will  not  admit  this.  We  go  back  to  the 
fact  with  which  I  started  this  book:  that  the  value 
of  a  picture  does  not  depend  upon  the  subject  but 
the  way  in  which  the  artist  has  rendered  it.  Be- 
cause a  man  portrays  some  noble  incident  from 
poetry  or  the  Bible,  or  invents  some  scene  out  of 
his  brain,  it  does  not  follow  that  his  picture  will 
represent  a  higher  degree  of  beauty  or  a  finer 
imagination  than  one  which  only  represents  some 
simple  scene  in  nature.  I  will  go  further  and  say 
that  some  of  the  pictures  of  "  still  life  "  1  by  the 
Frenchman,  Antoine  Vollon,  or  our  own  American 
artist,  Emil  C arisen,  exhibit  more  beauty,  yes,  and 
even  more  imagination  than  many  ambitious  figure 
subjects.  Why  is  this?  How  can  a  picture  of  a 
pumpkin  and  vegetables  by  Vollon,  or  one  of  Carl- 

1  Still  life,  or  as  the  French  call  it  "dead  nature"  includes, 
firstly,  picked  flowers,  fruit  and  vegetables,  and  dead  animals, 
and  secondly,  vases,  pots,  and  other  objects  of  man's  handicraft. 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

sen's  subjects,  such  as  a  creamy  porcelain  vase,  and 
a  lemon,  and  one  or  two  other  delicately  colored 
objects  on  a  white  tablecloth,  show  more  beauty  and 
imagination  than,  for  instance,  an  imposing  picture 
like  Leutze's  Washington  Crossing  the  Delaware  1 

The  answer  is  that  Yollon  and  Carlsen  exhibit 
more  feeling  for  beauty  and  more  imagination  in 
matters  that  especially  belong  to  painting,  while 
Leutze  went  outside  of  painting.  Let  me  explain 
myself.  Leutze  saw  beauty  in  the  heroism  of  Wash- 
ington and  his  soldiers,  fighting  against  tremendous 
odds  for  a  great  cause  in  the  terrible  cold  of  winter. 
His  imagination  was  kindled  by  the  importance  of 
the  cause  and  the  devotion  of  those  who  fought  for 
it  It  was  the  facts,  as  they  appealed  to  his  mind, 
and  the  ideas  that  his  mind  formed  about  them 
-which  he  tried  to  represent.  But  the  special  field 
for  the  artist,  as  I  have  already  said,  is  not  covered 
by  his  mind  but  by  his  eyes.  It  is  with  what  he 
can  see  that  he  should  be  first  and  chiefly  concerned 
— the  beauty  of  the  visible  world.  And  his  imagi- 
nation as  an  artist  is  chiefly  shown  in  the  capacity 
that  his  mind  has  for  discovering  unexpected  beau- 
ties and  rendering  them.  Thus  to  ourselves,  and 
even  to  some  artists,  a  pumpkin  may  seem  but  a 
bright  orange  mass,  with  a  rough  or  shiny  rind  as 
the  case  may  be;  an  attractive  spot  of  color  and 
shape,  a  thing  to  be  admired  for  a  moment  and 
then  forgotten.  Another  artist,  on  the  contrary, 
sees  a  great  deal  more  in  it.  He  sees  subtle  differ- 
ences of  color,  according  to  the  way  the  light  falls 

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Form  and  Color 

on  it,  various  delicate  differences  in  the  roughness 
or  smoothness  of  the  rind;  curiously  beautiful  ac- 
cidents of  color,  as  it  reflects  the  colors  of  other  ob- 
jects near  it;  mysteries  of  shadow,  some  deep  and 
strong,  others  so  faint  that  an  ordinary  eye  might 
not  detect  them.  These  and  other  qualities,  that 
his  sensitive  eyes  perceive,  create  impressions  in  his 
brain  that  fill  his  imagination  with  a  sense  of 
beauty  somewhat  as  music  does.  He  cannot  tell 
you  why  he  enjoys  it  so  much,  or  explain  in  words 
the  effect  it  has  on  his  imagination.  The  whole 
impression  is  a  vision  of  his  imagination,  excited 
by  the  sense  of  sight,  and  this  vision  he  sets  to 
work  to  interpret  on  his  canvas,  in  order  that  it 
may  be  communicated  to  our  eyesight,  and,  in  turn, 
excite  our  imagination.  We  receive  from  form  and 
color  feelings  of  pleasure  that  we  cannot  describe  in 
words  but  which  are  not  less  real  on  that  account. 
It  is  an  abstract  enjoyment,  free  from  any  distinct 
connection  with  words  or  facts.  On  the  other  hand, 
in  Washington  Crossing  the  Delaware  it  is  the  rec- 
ord of  facts,  presented  in  the  picture,  that  chiefly 
interests  us.  Neither  the  forms  nor  the  arrangement 
of  color  have  in  themselves  any  separate  abstract 
quality  of  beauty. 

So,  it  is  not  upon  the  beauty  of  the  things  seen 
by  the  eyes,  but  upon  the  interest  of  things  under- 
stood by  the  mind  that  Leutze  depended.  He 
really  neglected  his  own  proper  field  of  painting, 
for  that  of  the  writer  or  orator.  Therefore,  he  put 
himself  at  a  disadvantage;  for  I  think  you  will 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

admit,  that  a  good  speaker  or  writer  could  describe 
the  incident  in  a  much  more  thrilling  way  than  the 
picture  does. 

But  we  have  strayed  somewhat  from  our  point. 
We  were  speaking  of  idealistic  pictures,  and  noted 
that  they  are  so  called  because  the  artist  instead  of 
representing  nature  as  it  is,  corrects  it  and  improves 
upon  it  in  order  to  bring  it  up  to  what  he  considers 
an  "ideal"  standard  of  perfection.  I  mentioned 
that  these  pictures  and  the  motive  which  prompts 
them  are  also  called  "  Academic." 

The  reason  is  that  the  school  in  Paris  whicti 
teaches  these  principles  of  painting  is  maintained  by 
the  Academy  of  the  Fine  Arts ;  and  its  example  has 
been  followed  by  many  other  European  Academies 
of  painting.  So,  when  we  speak  of  a  picture  being 
Academic  in  character,  we  mean  that  its  motive  and 
manner  of  painting  follow  the  rules  laid  down  by 
the  schools.  To  repeat  a  word  we  have  frequently 
used  before,  they  are  based  on  the  Academic  For- 
mula.  Previously  it  was  the  Classic  formula  of 
which  we  spoke.  This,  you  remember  was  the  rule 
or  plan  for  building  up  a  formal  composition,  some- 
times strengthened  by  the  introduction  of  classic 
architecture  and  often  representing  some  scene  or 
story  of  classic  legend.  And  it  is  upon  this  classic 
formula  that  the  Academic  practice  is  largely  based. 
So  when  a  modern  artist  paints  a  picture  after  the 
fashion  of  Raphael's  Jurisprudence,  we  can  speak 
of  its  manner  and  motive  as  being  Academic,  Clas- 
sic, or  Idealistic.  Sometimes1  in  fact,  the  meaning 

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Form  and  Color 

of  these  words  is  practically  tlie  same,  but  not 
always. 

For  at  times  an  Academic  painter  will  choose  an 
everyday  subject  of  ordinary  life,  yet  his  picture 
will  not  be  naturalistic.  There  are  two  ways  in 
which  he  may  miss  the  truth  of  nature.  Either  he 
will  try  to  improve  upon  the  actual  facts,  or  he 
will  leave  out  the  light  and  atmosphere  in  which  the 
objects  appear  in  nature.  We  may  find  examples 
of  both  these  contradictions  of  the  natural  truth  in 
Leutze's  picture.  He  was  trained  in  the  Academy  of 
Diisseldorf,  a  city  on  the  Rhine;  at  a  time  when 
that  school  had  abandoned  Classical  subjects  for  in- 
cidents from  history,  or  scenes  from  German  leg- 
ends, or  what  it  called  genre-pictures  of  peasant 
life.  But  these  last  were  not  genre  in  the  sense  that 
the  old  Dutch  pictures  were.  For  the  latter  repro- 
duced the  actual  habits  and  life  of  the  times,  where- 
as the  Diisseldorf  artists  presented  fancy  pictures 
in  which  the  peasants  were  grouped,  as  if  they 
were  taking  part  in  some  scene  in  an  opera  or  other 
theatrical  performance.  This  artificial  treatment 
appears  in  Washington  Crossing  the  Delaware. 

It  is  supposed  to  represent  a  historical  incident. 
Do  you  think  it  has  the  value  of  history;  that  the 
incident  really  happened  as  it  is  here  depicted? 
The  artist,  of  course,  was  not  present;  he  was  com- 
pelled to  shape  the  facts  of  the  incident  according 
to  what  he  had  read  about  them,  or,  as  I  rather 
suspect,  according  to  what  his  fancy  had  pictured 
them.  History  tells  us  that  the  crossing  began 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

early  in  the  evening  of  December  25,  1776,  and 
lasted  until  four  a.m.  the  following  morning.  Does 
this  picture  represent  the  dimness  of  a  winter  twi- 
light, much  less  the  gloom  of  night?  I  might  ask 
the  further  question,  is  any  kind  of  natural  light 
suggested  in  this  picture?  I  feel  confident  the  an- 
swer is  "no."  Leutze  probably  had  no  thought 
of  representing  this  aspect  of  the  truth;  the  Diissel- 
dorf  School  paid  no  attention  to  the  real  appearances 
of  light;  or  to  the  effect  that  light  would  have  upon 
the  appearance  of  the  figures.  Their  outlines  are 
sharply  defined ;  every  figure  is  rendered  with  about 
equal  distinctness;  no  effort  has  been  made  to  rep- 
resent them  in  relation  to  one  another,  with  varying 
degrees  of  clearness  and  obscurity.  A  similar  arti- 
ficiality appears  in  the  representation  of  the  ice.  It 
is  true  the  lights  and  shadows  and  gleam  of  the 
surfaces  of  real  ice  have  been  studied;  so  that  the 
painting  conveys  the  idea  of  ice;  but  this  is  a  very 
different  thing  from  the  painted  blocks  representing 
the  effects  of  real  ice,  as  seen  in  real  light. 

So  we  find  that  Leutze,  though  wishing  to  give 
us  a  vivid  representation  of  the  incident,  has  ne- 
glected a  number  of  important  facts  relating  to  the 
hour  of  the  occurrence  and  to  the  conditions  of  at- 
mosphere and  light,  as  they  must  have  affected  the 
appearance  of  the  scene.  He  was  simply  not  inter- 
ested in  these  matters.  Then,  what  of  the  point  on 
which  he  evidently  relied  —  the  grouping  of  the 
figures  in  the  foreground?  It  is  a  ticklish  job  to 
pull  a  boat  through  a  mass  of  floating  ice-cakes. 

140 


£    I 
ll 


O 

I 


I 


Form  and  Color 

Do  you  think  that  Washington  and  the  flag-bearer 
would  have  increased  the  difficulty  and  peril  by 
standing  up  ?  Don't  you  know  that  to  stand  up  in 
a  boat  even  on  smooth  water  is  a  foolhardy  thing 
to  do?  It  is  a  frequent  cause  of  accident  and  loss 
of  life  in  pleasure  parties.  On  an  occasion  so  seri- 
ous as  this  would  the  leader  have  been  guilty  of 
such  folly?  Certainly  not.  Washington  and  every 
man,  not  actually  engaged  in  navigating  the  boat, 
would  have  been  sitting  low  down,  so  as  to  help 
preserve  the  balance  and  offer  as  little  resistance  as 
possible  to  the  wind.  Here,  then,  is  another  indif- 
ference to  facts  in  this  so-called  historic  picture. 
But  Leutze  did  not  care  about  facts.  His  motive 
was  to  bring  out  the  heroic  character  of  the  events. 
So  he  made  Washington  strike  a  heroic  attitude. 
It  is  the  way  in  which  a  popular  actor  takes  the 
center  of  the  stage  and  strikes  an  attitude  and  waits 
for  the  applause.  Leutze  wanted  a  central  figure 
around  which  to  build  up  his  composition  and,  in 
order  to  support  the  central  figure,  reared  another 
behind  it  holding  aloft  the  flag.  Thus  he  wins  ap- 
plause, at  once,  for  the  star  actor  and  the  patriotic 
sentiment  of  the  scene.  In  fact  his  composition  is 
similar  in  intention  and  arrangement  to  the  group- 
ing of  figures  on  the  stage  of  a  popular  theater. 
It  is  theatrical.  I  do  not  say  dramatic,  but  theat- 
rical, between  which  two  ideas  there  is  this  distinc- 
tion. When  we  speak  of  a  scene  being  dramatic  we 
mean  that  tne  action  of  the  plot  has  been  vividly 
expressed  by  means  that  create  an  illusion  of  truth 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

— that  the  characters  behave  as  they  might  be  ex- 
pected to  do  in  real  life  under  the  circumstances. 
By  theatrical,  on  the  other  hand,  we  imply  that  the 
behaviour  of  the  actors1  instead  of  "  holding  the 
mirror  up  to  nature,"  is  regulated  so  as  to  produce 
an  artificial  effectiveness.  Such  a  scene  we  call 
theatrical,  or  stagey.  And  the  same  words,  in  my 
opinion,  can  be  applied  to  this  picture.  For  Leutze 
failed  to  realise,  not  only  that  truth  may  be 
stronger  than  fiction,  but  also  that  it  may  be  more 
impressive  than  artificial  effectiveness.  The  true 
word  spoken  in  simple  earnestness,  the  true  act  done 
simply,  "often  move  men's  imagination,  where  loud 
rhetoric  and  ostentatious  conduct  leave  it  cold.  So, 
too,  in  a  picture,  a  deeper  sentiment  may  be  aroused 
by  simple  truth  of  representation,  than  by  a  display 
of  mock  heroics. 

In  this  picture,  you  will  observe,  we  have  been 
discussing  the  Academic  point  of  view  applied  to  the 
representation  of  an  incident  that  really  happened. 
The  painter  undertook  a  real  subject,  but  has  not 
rendered  it  as  it  would  have  really  appeared  to  us, 
had  we  been  there  to  see  the  event.  This  is  a  charge 
that  can  be  brought  against  many  so-called  historical 
pictures,  and  against  those  smaller  ones,  the  genre 
pictures,  which  are  supposed  to  represent  incidents 
of  actual  everyday  life.  When  painted  in  the  Aca- 
demic manner  they  are  not  true  to  life,  but  artifi- 
cially concocted. 

On  the  other  hand,  as  I  have  said,  many  Aca- 
demic pictures,  choosing  classical  or  idealistic  sub- 

142 


Form  and  Color 

jects,  make  no  pretence  of  representing  life.  They 
try  to  improve  on  life  by  making  their  forms  more 
beautiful  than  they  actually  are  in  nature;  and 
build  up  compositions  which  must  not  be  compared 
with  the  way  in  which  people  group  themselves  in 
real  life.  In  such  pictures  we  do  not  look  for  nat- 
ural beauty  but  for  that  of  the  artist's  own  inven- 
tion. 

So,  to  bring  the  subject  to  a  finish,  we  must  bear, 
in  mind  that  there  are  two  distinct  ways  of  paint- 
ing a  picture.  If  the  artist  has  tried  to  represent 
nature,  we  must  learn  to  compare  it  with  nature; 
if  on  the  contrary,  he  has  tried  to  paint  a  subject 
of  "  ideal  perfection,"  we  must  not  find  fault  with 
its  unnaturalness.  We  may  prefer  the  one  or  the 
other  kind;  but  should  not  let  our  preference  inter- 
fere with  our  judgment  of  the  different  merits  of 
each.  Until  we  recognise  the  "  Great  Divide  "  be- 
tween the  Academic  and  the  Naturalistic  points  of 
view,  we  shall  not  get  very  far  in  our  appreciation 
of  pictures. 


143 


CHAPTEE  XIII 

COLOR 

TT  was  mentioned  in  the  previous  chapter  that 
*  artists  may  be  divided  into  two  classes:  those 
who  are  particularly  interested  in  the  shape  or 
form  of  what  they  see,  and  those  who  see  the  world 
as  an  arrangement  of  "  colored  masses."  It  is  the 
latter  way  of  seeing  things  that  we  are  now  going 
to  consider. 

We  know  that  everything  visible  to  the  eye  has 
color.  When  we  think  of  a  garden  lawn,  an  im-* 
pression  of  green  comes  into  our  mind.  Green,  an 
artist  would  say,  is  the  local  color  of  the  lawn — the 
general  hue  which  distinguishes  it  from  the  paths 
and  flower  beds.  There  may  be  dandelions  spotted 
about  the  grass;  indeed  it  is  a  lucky  lawn  that  is 
not  overrun  with  them;  yet,  notwithstanding  the 
yellow  patches,  the  local  color  of  the  lawn  is  green. 
And  this  is  true,  although  here  and  there  the  grass 
may  appear  yellow  in  the  warm  sunshine,  or, 
where  the  shadows  of  the  trees  lie,  may  have  a 
bluish  tinge;  or  again,  in  the  distance  may  appear 
to  be  almost  gray.  You  see  then,  that  when  we 
begin  to  talk  about  color,  we  do  not  think  only  of 
the  general  hue  or  local  color,  but  also  of  the 

144 


Color 

changes  which  take  place  in  its  appearance,  accord- 
ing as  it  is  subject  to  light  and  shadow  or  is  seen 
near  or  further  off. 

E"ow  let  us  take  another  case.  A  woman,  we  will 
suppose,  has  a  quantity  of  white  cotton  material 
which  she  proposes  to  dye  blue.  She  buys  some 
indigo,  and  puts  it  in  a  tub  of  water.  Into  this 
dye-bath  she  plunges  the  cotton,  and  then  hangs  it 
on  a  line  to  dry.  When  she  has  taken  it  down  and 
ironed  it,  it  presents  a  uniform  hue  of  blue,  its 
local  color.  But  what  happens  when  she  has  made 
it  up  into  a  dress?  The  local  color  remains  the 
same;  but  the  appearance  is  no  longer  of  a  uniform 
hue.  In  some  parts  the  blue  is  paler  or  whiter  than 
the  local  color,  in  other  parts  darker;  for  now  the 
material  is  not  spread  out  smoothly,  the  light  no 
longer  falls  upon  every  part  of  it  in  the  same  way. 
The  skirt,  for  example,  hangs  in  folds ;  and  the  full 
light  strikes  directly  only  on  the  raised  edges  of 
the  pleats.  Into  the  hollow  of  the  fold  less  light 
penetrates,  and  at  different  angles. 

Just  what  do  we  mean  by  angle  of  light?  We 
must  remember  that  the  rays  of  light  coming  from 
the  sun,  radiate  or  travel  outward  in  straight  lines, 
as  the  spokes  of  a  wheel  radiate  from  the  hub;  ex- 
cept that  the  spokes  of  light  are  not  confined  to  a 
flat  circle,  but  radiate  in  all  directions  from  every 
part  of  the  sun's  orb.  But  to  return  to  the  wheel. 
Let  us  suppose  that  it  is  a  buggy's  wheel,  and  that 
the  buggy  is  jacked  up,  so  that  we  can  turn  the 
wheel  easily.  We  will  do  so  until  one  of  the  spokes 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

is  pointing  straight  down  to  the  ground,  and,  to 
make  sure  that  it  is  exactly  vertical,  we  will  suspend 
in  front  of  it  a  string  with  a  weight  attached  to  its 
lower  end.  If  the  spoke  follows  exactly  the  direc- 
tion of  this  plumh  line,  then  we  know  that  it  is 
pointing  down  directly  to  the  surface  of  the  ground. 
We  know,  in  fact,  that  the  direction  of  the  spoke 
is  at  right  angles  to  the  surface  of  the  ground;  or, 
which  amounts  to  the  same  thing,  we  may  say  that 
the  surface  of  the  ground  is  at  right  angles  to  the 
direction  of  the  spoke. 

But  what  about  the  direction  of  the  other  spokes 
of  the  wheel?  With  them  the  plumb  line  will  not 
help  us.  We  must  get  a  straight  stick,  say  the 
handle  of  the-  stable  broom.  If  we  hold  this  along 
the  direction  of  either  of  the  spokes,  nearest  to  the 
center  onCi  we  shall  find  that  when  the  handle 
touches  the  ground,  it  will  be  at  a  point  further  off 
from  the  hub,  and  not  at  a  right  angle  to  the 
ground  but  at  an  acute  angle.  If  we  try  the  same 
experiment  with  the  next  spoke,  we  may  need  a 
longer  stick,  for  the  point  where  it  reaches  the 
ground  will  be  still  further  from  the  hub,  and  the 
angle  of  direction  will  be  still  more  acute.  If  we 
follow  on  to  the  next  spoke,  we  shall  probably  find 
that  its  direction,  when  extended,  does  not  reach  the 
ground.  It  points  above  it  Perhaps  it  hits  the 
barn  wall;  and  then  again  comes  the  question:  does 
it  hit  the  wall  at  a  right  angle  or  at  an  acute  angle  ? 
The  answer  to  this,  if  you  think  a  moment,  will 
depend  upon  the  position,  not  only  of  the  spoke, 

146 


Color 

but  also  of  the  wall.  For  example,  the  spoke  may 
point  directly  at  the  wall,  so  that  when  you  stand 
at  the  corner  of  the  barn  and  run  your  eye  along 
the  wall,  the  spoke  will  make  a  right  angle  with  the 
wall's  vertical  direction.  But  the  wall  has  another 
direction — a  horizontal  one;  and  this  may  slope 
away  from  the  direction  of  the  spoke,  so  that  if  you 
stand  in  front  of  the  wall,  your  stick  makes  with  it 
an  acute  angle.  Evidently  under  some  circumstances 
a  single  direction  may  make  with  the  surface  of  the 
wall  both  an  acute  and  a  right  angle. 

By  this  time  our  experiment,  which  started  out 
so  simply,  has  become  perhaps  a  little  puzzling  to 
follow.  But  I  don't  mind  if  it  has ;  for  I  wish  you 
to  realise  that,  although  this  matter  of  direction 
and  angles  is  simple  in  principle,  it  works  out  in 
a  very  complicated  way.  The  more  we  realise  this, 
the  more  we  shall  realise  the  wonderful  effects  of 
light  upon  color.  As  a  beginning,  let  us  imagine 
that  the  hub  of  the  wheel  is  a  center  of  heat,  white- 
hot,  and  that  the  spokes  are  rays  of  light,  not  sta- 
tionary like  the  woodwork  but  travelling  outward 
at  great  speed.  The  shaft  of  light  that  runs  straight 
down  and  strike  the  ground  at  right  angles  to  the 
surface,  would  make  the  spot  where  it  touches  very 
bright.  The  second  shaft,  however  as  it  reaches 
the  ground  further  off  from  the  hub  will  illumine 
the  spot  with  less  light.  Moreover,  since  it  hits  an 
acute  angle  and  is  travelling  fast,  some  of  it  will 
glance  off  the  spot.  It  will  be  reflected  from  the 
surface  back  and  forth,  somewhat  as  a  ball  is  tossed 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

backwards  and  forwards  from,  the  hands  of  a  group 
of  children. 

This  fact  of  reflection  and  the  fact  that  the  so- 
called  angle  of  reflection  is  the  same  as  the  angle 
of  incidence,  or,  in  other  words,  the  angle  at  which 
the  light  falls  upon  the  object,  explains  a  familiar 
sight  Have  you  never  seen,  late  in  the  afternoon, 
when  the  sun  is  above  the  horizon,  a  blaze  upon 
a  hill  side,  so  bright  that  your  first  thought  is  it 
must  be  a  house  on  fire?  You  saw  it  suddenly; 
and,  if  you  walk  a  few  steps  to  the  right  or  left,  it 
as  suddenly  disappears;  to  reappear,  however,  when 
you  resume  your  former  position.  By  this  time  you 
know  it  is  not  a  fire,  but  the  reflection  of  the  sun 
from  some  window  or  tin  roof.  The  light,  striking 
down  upon  it,  glances  off,  and,  as  you  happen  to 
be  in  the  line  of  its  angle  of  reflection,  strikes  you 
full  in  the  eyes.  But  move  your  position,  so  as  to 
get  out  of  the  "  line  of  fire,"  and  the  reflected  ray 
passes  you  by  without  attracting  your  notice. 

Here  is  another  example  of  reflected  light,  which 
you  yourself  can  control.  Do  you  remember  the 
fairy  Tinker  Belljein  "Peter  Pan";  how  she  ap- 
peared as  a  patch  of  light,  dancing  over  the  walls  ? 
Very  likely  when  you  returned  from  the  theater 
you  made  her  appear  on  the  walls  of  your  home. 
As  you  sat  at  the  breakfast  table  you  picked  up  a 
tumbler  of  water,  or  a  bright  bladed  knife,  and 
moved  it  about  until  it  caught  the  light  and  tossed 
it  across  the  room  on  to  the  wall,  where  you  could 
make  the  fairy  hover  by  gently  shaking  the  glass 

148 


Color 

or  knife.  On  the  other  hand  by  changing  the  posi- 
tion of  the  glass  or  knife  you  could  cause  her  to 
disappear;  to  reappear  if  you  wished  it,  on  another 
part  of  the  wall. 

Now  after  considering  the  difference  between 
direct  and  reflected  light,  let  us  go  back  to  the  blue 
dress.  We  were  saying,  you  will  remember,  that 
the  skirt  no  longer  presented  an  appearance  of  uni- 
form hue.  For  the  local  color  of  the  material  had 
.become  affected  by  the  way  in  which  the  light 
reached  the  folds.  On  the  raised  edges  the  blue  ap- 
pears almost  white;  in  the  bottom  of  the  hollows, 
where  no  light  penetrates,  it  appears  to  be  almost 
black.  Meanwhile  on  the  sloping  edges  of  the 
folds  there  are  varying  degrees  of  lighter  or  darker 
blue,  according  as  the  material  approaches  nearer 
to  the  light  or  recedes  further  from  it.  In  other 
words,  the  light  strikes  the  surfaces  of  the  dress  at 
different  angles;  there  are  varieties  of  reflections, 
and  some  parts  of  the  skirt  are  almost  entirely  re- 
moved from  the  action  of  the  light 

But  all  this  time  we  have  been  speaking  of  light, 
and  yet  the  subject  of  this  chapter  is  color.  Well, 
the  reason  is,  that  color  is  light  and  light  is  color. 
If  we  were  shut  up  in  a  cellar  from  which  all  light 
was  excluded,  we  should  see  no  color.  Our  eyes 
would  experience  no  sensations  of  sight  whatever, 
and,  if  we  were  left  there  a  long  time,  our  eyes,  not 
being  used,  would  probably  lose  their  sense  of  sight 
But,  if  after  we  had  been  in  a  cellar  a  little  while 
surrounded  by  "  thick  darkness "  as  the  old  Eng- 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

lish  expression  is — meaning  a  darkness  so  opaque 
that  the  eye  cannot  penetrate  it — the  window  shut- 
ter should  be  opened  a  trifle,  then  immediately  our 
eyes  would  experience  a  sensation  of  color.  The 
shaft  of  light,  cutting  across  the  darkness,  would 
look  white ;  but,  if  it  hit  upon  a  shelf  of  apples,  our 
eye  would  receive  a  sensation  of  green  or  red  or 
yellow.  If  light  is  color,  why  should  it  seem  white 
in  one  case  and  some  other  hue  in  another?  It  is 
because  in  the  whiteness  of  light  are  contained  all 
the  colors  of  -which  we  are  conscious.  Very  likely 
you  know  the  experiment  by  which  the  truth  of  this 
is  shown.  Supposing  you  are  still  in  the  cellar  and 
place  in  the  pathway  of  the  shaft  of  light  a  prism — • 
that  is  to  say,  a  bar  of  glass  not  round  or  square, 
but  triangular — what  will  happen?  The  glass  be- 
ing transparent,  the  light  will  pass  through  it.  But 
not  in  a  straight  line;  for,  as  it  hits  one  of  the 
sloping  surfaces  of  the  prism,  it  will  be  bent  out  of 
its  course ;  and  then,  as  it  reaches  the  opposite  slop- 
ing side,  it  will  again  be  bent  into  another  direc- 
tion. So  the  light  in  its  passage  through  the  prism 
will  have  been  twice  bent  out  of  its  original  direc- 
tion; and,  when  it  emerges,  it  will  be  no  longer  a 
single  shaft  of  white  light,  but  will  appear  as  a 
broad  band  of  many  colored  lights;  red,  orange, 
yellow,  green,  blue,  violet.  We  may  call  this  succes- 
sion, a  scale  of  color  lights.  They  correspond  in 
hue  and  order  to  the  bands  or  scale  of  colored  lights 
in  the  rainbow,  for  the  latter  is  the  result  of  an 
act  of  nature,  which  on  a  very  large  scale  is  like 

150 


Color 

our  experiment  with  the  prism.  Only  nature's 
prism  is  formed  by  a  bar  of  rain  on  which  strikes 
a  shaft  of  light  through  a  slit  in  the  thick  upper 
clouds. 

With  this  scale  of  colored  lights  scientists  have 
made  delicate  experiments.  They  have  analysed 
the  colors  more  exactly;  discovering,  that  is  to  say, 
the  distinct  degrees  of  color,  for  instance,  between 
the  red  and  the  orange,  as  the  one  passes  into  the 
other ;  and  again  between  the  orange  and  the  yellow, 
the  yellow  and  the  green,  and  so  on.  Then,  after 
discovering  the  succession  of  monochromatic  tints, 
as  they  call  them,  by  optical  instruments,  they  have 
tested  the  power  of  the  human  eye  to  discriminate, 
or  detect  the  difference  between  these  various  tints. 
Notwithstanding  that  the  difference  between  the 
latter  is  so  slight,  they  have  found  that  the  eye  is 
sensitive  to  something  like  two  million  monochro- 
matic tints.  I  mention  it  not  to  trouble  you  with 
figures  but  to  stir  your  imagination ;  for  such  a  fact 
should  fill  us  with  admiration  not  only  of  the  mar- 
vellous qualities  of  light  but  also  of  the  marvellous 
capacity  of  the  human  eye.  It  helps  us  to  begin  to 
realise  the  miracle  of  light  and  the  immense  field 
of  study  that  lies  open  to  the  artist  who  is  a  color- 
ist,  to  whom,  that  is  to  say,  it  is  the  color  of  the 
visible  world  that  most  appeals. 

Light,  then,  contains  within  itself  all  colors. 
When  light  falls  upon  an  object,  for  example,  a  leaf, 
the  latter  absorbs  some  of  the  colors  of  the  light  and 
throws  off  others.  The  part  thrown  off  in  the  case 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

of  the  leaf  is  what  we  call  its  color:  green,  or  it 
may  be  greenish  yellow,  or  a  bluish  green,  or  in 
autumn,  crimson.  Every  substance  has  this  power 
of  absorbing  some  of  the  light  and  of  throwing  off 
the  rest;  and  it  is  the  different  chemical  properties 
of  different  substances  that  decide  which  of  the 
colors  of  light  they  will  absorb  and  which  they  will 
throw  off ;  or,  as  we  say,  causes  them  to  be  a  certain 
color. 

We  have  spoken  of  the  human  eye  being  sensitive 
to  an  immense  variety  of  colors.  Let  us  consider  the 
meaning  of  sensitive.  In  the  first  place,  the  eye  re- 
ceives an  impression  that  causes  it  to  telegraph  to 
the  brain  a  record  of  the  hue;  but  it  means  more, 
for  the  word  sensitive  implies  a  capacity  to  feel. 
In  some  way  or  other  the  brain  receives  an  impres- 
sion of  feeling.  Just  how  it  does,  I  understand,  is 
not  known;  but  scientists  tell  us  that  these  impres- 
sions of  sight,  while  they  are  not  quite  similar  to  the 
feelings  aroused  by  sound,  have  something  in  com- 
mon. Just  as  some  sounds  give  pleasure  while  others 
are  disturbing,  so  with  colors — we  receive  from  them 
sensations  of  pain  or  pleasure.  According  to  the  de- 
gree of  our  sensitiveness  to  sound  or  color  our  feel- 
ings are  aroused.  It  may  be  only  slightly,  or  it  may 
be  more  intensely.  It  is  pleasant,  for  example,  to 
hear  the  sound  of  the  robin's  note,  and,  as  we  peep 
out  of  our  bedroom  window  to  look  at  him,  we  may 
catch  sight  of  the  yellow  or  red  notes  of  color  that 
the  tulips  are  beginning  to  make  against  the  dark 
earth.  They  too  will  give  us  pleasure.  £  *£  in  both 

152 


Color 

cases  our  pleasure  may  go  no  further  than  just  a 
little  enjoyment  of  their  note  of  color  or  sound.  Or, 
on  the  other  hand,  they  may  stir  our  imagination. 
We  recognise  their  notes  as  the  first  signs  of  spring. 
Nature  in  her  mysterious  way  has  whispered  alike 
to  the  robin  and  the  tulip  that  the  rigor  of  winter 
is  over;  that  spring  is  come  with  its  birth  of  new 
life,  bringing  beauty  and  happiness  in  its  train. 
And  in  ourselves,  as  we  recognise  the  notes  of  spring, 
life  leaps  up  with  a  new  sense  of  the  beauty  and 
happiness  of  living.  Those  notes,  in  fact,  which  be- 
gan by  giving  only  simple  pleasure  to  our  ear,  have 
stirred  ideas  in  our  minds;  they  have  become  asso- 
ciated in  our  imagination  with  a  fuller  and  higher 
sense  of  life. 

On  the  other  hand,  some  notes  of  sound  distress 
us.  The  unexpected  discharge  of  a  gun  may  strike 
us  unpleasantly;  the  roar  of  the  wind  and  the  rain 
against  the  window  fill  us  with  melancholy;  the  cry 
of  a  creature  in  pain,  even  before  we  know  whence 
the  cry  comes  or  the  reason  of  it,  may  cut  us  like 
a  knife.  I  mean,  that  sounds,  quite  apart  from  any 
definite  thoughts  that  we  associate  with  them,  may 
hurt  us.  So  may  colors.  I  might  illustrate  this  by 
saying  that  sometimes  when  we  enter  a  room  the 
color  of  the  carpet,  perhaps  green  with  red  roses  as 
big  as  cabbages,  and  the  color  of  the  furniture, 
which  may  be  of  gold  upholstered  in  blue,  seem  to 
start  up  and  hit  us  a  bang  in  the  eye.  But  perhaps 
you  like  smart  colors,  so  I  will  offer  another  ex- 
ample. Shakespeare  said — 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

She  never  told  her  love, 
But  let  concealment,  like  a  worm  i'  the  bud, 
Feed  on  her  damask  cheek.    She  pined  in  thought, 
And  with  a  green  and  yellow  melancholy, 
She  sat,  like  patience  on  a  monument, 
Smiling  at  grief. 

Shakespeare's  opportunity  of  seeing  pictures  had 
been  very  limited.  In  fact,  I  am  sure  that  he  was 
not  thinking  of  pictures  when  he  described  melan- 
choly as  "  green  and  yellow.'7  Either  he  had  an 
instinctive  dislike  of  this  combination  that  probably 
he  could  not  have  explained;  simply  he  felt  it  to  be 
disagreeable ;  or  he  may  have  associated  it  in  his 
imagination  with  something  he  had  observed.  Per- 
haps for  instance,  since  he  speaks  in  the  next  line 
of  a  "  monument/'  he  may  have  been  thinking  of 
the  green  and  yellow  stains  on  old  tombstones,  so 
that  "  green  and  yellow  "  suggested  to  him  the  very 
opposite  of  "  damask  cheek "  with  its  rosiness  of 
healthy  life ;  in  fact  the  signs  of  wasting  and  decay. 
Anyhow,  to  Shakespeare's  imagination  these  colors 
represented  something  disagreeable.  That  is  the 
point.  Colors,  like  sounds,  may  excite  feelings  of 
distress  or  pleasure. 

And,  if  single  notes  may  give  pleasure,  how  much 
more  a  number  of  them.  It  is  when  a  number  of 
them  are  combined  into  a  composition  that  a  har- 
mony is  produced.  The  musician  creates  a  harmony 
of  sound,  the  painter  a  harmony  of  color.  The  se- 
cret of  a  harmony  is  the  relation  that  the  separate 
notes  of  sound  or  color  in  it  bear  to  one  another. 

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Color 

If  I  try  to  explain  this,  it  is  not  because  I  wish  to 
tell  you  how  to  make  a  color  harmony,  but  because 
I  hope  the  explanation  may  help  you  to  enjoy  it. 
Perhaps  we  may  get  an  idea  of  what  relation  means 
if  we  think  of  a  football  team.  It  consists  of  a  num- 
ber of  "individuals  with  separate  duties.  Some  play 
forward,  others  half-back,  quarter-back,  and  so  on. 
When  each  member  not  only  does  his  own  work  as 
well  as  possible  but  plays  well  into  the  hands  of  the 
other  members,  we  speak  of  the  excellence  of  the 
team  work.  And  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  it  is  not 
brilliant  individual  play,  but  fine  all-round  team- 
work that  wins  the  game.  The  different  members 
are  so  well  related  to  one  anxxfeher,  that  the  whole 
team  works  harmoniously. 

It  is  similar  in  a  harmony  of  colors.  For  perhaps 
you  see  that  what  I  wish  you  to  understand  is  not 
that  a  few  bright  colors  make  a  harmony,  but  that 
it  is  the  result  of  a  combination.  There  must  be 
team-work  among  the  colors.  They  count  as  in- 
dividual spots  of  color,  but  still  more  in  relation  to 
all  the  other  colors.  There  may  be  one  or  more 
crack  players — I  mean  predominant l  notes  of  color, 
— but  they  will  have  colleagues  or  assistants — colors 
of  the  same  hue  but  differing  in  degree — which  will 
repeat  or  echo  their  effect,  with  variations  all  over 
the  canvas.  These  subordinate  colors  and  the  crack 
ones  will  play  in  and  out,  backing  one  another  up, 
and,  as  it  were,  passing  the  ball  backward  and  for- 
ward into  one  another's  hands ;  acting  in  such  exact 
1  Showing  a  mastery  over  other*. 
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relation  to  one  another,  that  their  efforts  result  in 
a  perfect  harmony  of  effect 

But  so  far  we  have  been  thinking  only  of  one 
team,  working  out  its  scheme  of  attack  and  defense 
in  practice  play.  There  is  a  more  complicated  play, 
namely,  when  the  team  is  pitted  against  a  rival 
team.  So  in  color.  An  artist  will  introduce  rivalry, 
or  competition  into  his  color  scheme;  namely,  two 
crack  notes  of  color  that,  seen  by  themselves,  would 
produce  a  disagreeable  sensation.  Why  does  he  do 
so  ?  Because  he  knows  the  value  of  contrast  and  dis- 
cord; just  as  you  know  it  is  more  fun  to  watch  a 
game  of  football  between  two  well-matched  rival 
teams  than  the  merely  practice  play  of  one  of  them. 
For  now  the  artist  is  pitting  one  set  of  colors  against 
another  set;  the  crack  players  on  both  sides  and 
their  backers-up — the  colors  of  different  but  closely 
related  hue;  and  the  game  between  them  is  fast  and 
furious — an  interplay  of  likes  and  unlikes,  of  repe- 
titions and  of  contrasts.  The  excitement  of  the 
game  results  from  the  even  balance  of  the  two  rival 
sets  of  colors,  swaying  backward  and  forward  over 
the  gridiron — I  mean  the  canvas — massing  here  and 
there,  then  scattering  in  a  burst  of  animation — the 
two  teams  so  evenly  matched  that  their  rivalry  only 
makes  the  give  and  take  of  the  game  more  brilliantly 
harmonious. 

Such,  in  a  way,  is  the  harmony  of  color,  as  it  ap- 
pears in  the  pictures  of  a  true  colorist.  It  has  a 
focal  point  of  intensity  where  the  effect  is  massed, 
but  all  about  it,  scattered  over  the  canvas,  is  the  in- 

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Color 

terplay  of  related  similarities  and  contrasts,  all  of 
which  combine  into  a  harmonious  whole. 

It  may  help  you,  as  it  has  helped  me,  to  under- 
stand the  combination  of  these  numberless  repeti- 
tions and  contrasts  of  color,  if  I  tell  you  of  an  ex- 
perience of  sound  that  I  remember.  I  was  one  of 
a  party  walking  in  the  Swiss  mountains,  and  at  a 
turn  in  the  path  we  came  upon  a  man,  sitting  with 
a  gun  across  his  knees.  For  a  small  amount  this 
mountaineer  was  prepared  to  let  off  his  gun.  We 
paid,  he  fired.  There  was  a  sharp  report — a  focal 
point  of  sound — then  a  neighboring  mountain  side 
sent  back  an  echo,  which  was  caught  by  another  that 
sent  it  back,  whence  again  it  was  re-echoed  from 
another  mountain  peak,  and  so  on,  back  and  forth, 
until  in  a  moment  or  two,  the  whole  mountain 
world  resounded  with  a  wondrous  roar.  From  a 
single  note  of  sound,  which  made  a  very  slight  im- 
pression had  grown  a  multiplication  of  slightly  dif- 
fering sounds.  For  the  first  echo  was  slightly  dif- 
ferent to  the  original  note,  and  then  again  the  echo 
of  this  echo  differed  slightly,  so  too  the  echo  that 
came  next  and  the  one  that  followed  that,  and  so 
on  through  a  scale  of  slightly  varying  tones,  that 
finally  merged  into  one  huge  swell  of  throbbing 
sound,  as  of  some  mighty  organ  music — a  harmony 
of  tumult.  It  was  a  wonderful  sensation,  and  has 
helped  me  to  realise  the  wonder  of  color  harmony. 
For  an  artist  generally  founds  his  color  scheme 
upon  one  or  two  notes  of  color,  and  then  by  repre- 
senting the  echoes  of  these  colors,  as  they  are  re- 

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fleeted  at  different  angles  from  the  various  planes 
of  surface,  gradually  elaborates  or  works  out  a  maze 
of  related  colors  that  merge  into  a  harmony. 

On  the  other  hand  it  is  not  only  by  painting  the 
interplay  of  reflections  that  an  artist  produces  a  har- 
mony of  color.  There  is  a  less  complicated  way, 
represented  in  Japanese  prints  and  paintings,  and  in 
the  work  done  by  some  of  our  artists  who  have 
adopted  their  method.  In  this  case  the  color  is  flat ; 
the  objects,  that  is  to  say,  are  not  modeled  by  lights 
and  darks.  The  form,  instead  of  being  actually 
represented  is  only  suggested.  Consequently  there 
are  no  reflections  and  the  colors  are  laid  on  flatly 
and  smoothly.  But  they  are  most  carefully  related 
to  one  another;  both  in  quantity  and  tint.  The  ar- 
tist, for  example,  may  use  only  rose  and  lavender  and 
black.  But  his  sense  of  color  is  first  shown  in  his 
choice  of  the  particular  tints  of  rose  and  lavender  and 
black,  and  then  secondly,  in  his  distribution  of  these 
on  the  white  paper.  Perhaps  he  determines  to  make 
the  black  his  crack  player.  But  he  wishes  to  produce 
a  balance  of  harmony  of  all  his  colors,  so  he  carefully 
considers  how  large  a  space  the  chief  spot  of  black 
shall  occupy,  and  then  what  quantity  of  the  remain- 
ing spaces  shall  be  occupied  by  the  rose  and  lavender 
and  the  white  paper.  Having  thus  worked  out  the 
ground  plan  of  the  scheme,  he  may  elaborate  it  by 
repeating  some  of  the  black  in  other  parts  of  the 
picture,  and  by  introducing  echoes  of  the  rose  and 
lavender  in  the  large  spot  of  black.  The  echoes,  in 
this  case,  you  observe,  are  not  reflections,  they  are 

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Color 

simply  repetitions  in  smaller  quantities  of  the  colors 
of  the  main  spots.  His  composition,  in  fact,  is  a 
pattern  of  main  spots,  and  their  echoes;  the  whole 
presenting  a  unity  and  harmony  because  the  colors 
are  in  exact  relation. 

And  when  this  has  been  done  either  in  a  simple 
harmony  or  a  more  elaborate  one,  with  the  true  feel- 
ing of  a  colorist,  no  alteration  can  be  made  in  any 
part  of  the  picture  without  producing  a  discord,  de- 
stroying, that  is  to  say,  the  exquisite  balance  of  the 
whole.  I  mean,  that  if,  for  instance,  you  were  to 
cut  off  a  part  of  the  picture  in  order  to  make  it  fill 
a  frame,  you  would  destroy  the  harmony  of  the 
whole.  For  now  the  relation  of  the  colors  will  have 
been  disturbed.  There  is  no  longer  the  same  balance 
in  the  quantity  of  each,  nor  do  they  occupy  the  same 
related  position  in  the  composition. 

In  a  word,  as  we  said  above,  the  secret  of  color 
harmony  is  the  relation  of  the  separate  colors  to 
one  another  and  the  whole. 


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CHAPTER  XIV 

COLOR  (Continued)— VALUES— SUBTLETY 

SO  far  in  our  talk  on  color  we  have  laid  stress  on 
three  points:  first,  that  color  is  light;  sec- 
ondly, that  color  is  affected  by  light;  thirdly,  that 
the  painter  who  is  a  colorist  arranges  color  in  rela- 
tion to  other  colors,  so  as  to  produce  a  harmony. 

The  reason  was,  that  I  wished  you  not  to  think  of 
color  as  paint  Paints,  or  as  artists  call  them,  pig- 
ments, are  only  the  materials  that  man  has  invented 
to  imitate  the  real  thing.  The  real  thing  is  nature's 
color.  Pigments  we  will  speak  of  later. 

From  early  ages  man  has  been  attracted  by  na- 
ture's colors  and  has  tried  to  imitate  them  in  order 
to  brighten  up  his  own  person  and  his  surroundings. 
He  began  by  smearing  his  own  body  with  some  form 
of  dye  or  pigment,  either  to  make  himself  more  at- 
tractive or  to  strike  terror  into  his  enemies.  As  he 
became  more  civilised  and  learned  to  weave  wool 
and  cotton  and  flax,  he  dyed  his  blankets  and  cloth- 
ing, and  added  gay  borders  and  patterns  to  the  local 
color.  Growing  more  skilful  in  the  fashioning  of 
clay  pots,  and  bows  and  arrows,  and  other  articles 
of  war  and  domestic  use,  he  decorated  them  with  col- 
ored designs.  Little  by  little  he  learned  how  to  imi- 

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Color — Values — Subtlety 

tate  the  beauty  of  nature's  coloring.  But,  at  first, 
it  seems  to  have  been  the  brightness  of  color  that 
attracted  him ;  just  as  to-day,  a  great  many  children 
and,  for  that  matter,  grown-ups  as  well,  prefer  gay 
colors.  Manufacturers  and  merchants  know  this. 
Accordingly,  to  suit  the  taste  of  a  great  many  cus- 
tomers who  still  have  the  primitive  child-man's  love 
of  gay-colored  things,  they  fill  the  markets  with 
gaudy-colored  carpets  and  wall-papers,  and  gaudily 
upholstered  furniture,  gaudy  curtains,  cushions  and 
so  forth.  And  people  buy  them,  so  that  thousands 
of  households  are  furnished  in  a  way  that  to  any 
one  who  love's  nature's  coloring,  seems  horrible. 
Yes,  this  is  a  strong  word.  But  if  you  will  believe 
me,  not  too  strong  to  express  the  feelings  of  distress 
that  such  parlors  excite  in  people  whose  taste  is  more 
civilised.  They  are  as  much  distressed,  as  if  the 
parlor  were  filled  with  roosters,  parrots  and  mon- 
keys, all  crowing,  and  screeching  and  chattering  to- 
gether in  a  horrible  discord  of  sound. 

Perhaps  you  do  not  like  my  hinting  that  people 
who  prefer  these  noisy  colors  are  not  yet  fully  civil- 
ised. You  have  been  taught  that  we  are  living  in 
a  very  civilised  age,  with  all  sorts  of  modern  im- 
provements that  the  people  of  the  past  never  thought 
of,  much  less  enjoyed.  This  of  course  is  perfectly 
true.  Science  and  mechanical  inventions  have  made 
living  easier;  travel  is  cheaper,  education  has  ad- 
vanced, books  are  within  the  reach  of  everybody 
and,  best  of  all,  we  have  more  pity  for  the  poor, 
and  the  sick  and  the  afflicted,  and  try  to  make  their 

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lot  less  terrible.  Yes,  and  in  thousands  of  other 
ways  we  are  more  civilised.  Yet,  even  so,  we  may 
be  far  from  enjoying  all  the  opportunities  of  civili- 
sation that  this  wonderful  age  offers. 

How  many  girls  and  boys,  I  wonder,  who  have 
enjoyed  the  benefits  of  a  good  education,  when  they 
reach  the  age  in  which  they  can  choose  for  them- 
selves what  they  will  read,  select  the  best  books  ?  I 
mean  by  the  best  books,  those  that  in  history,  poetry, 
biography,  travel,  science,  and  fiction,  really  give 
us  the  best  kind  of  knowledge  of  men  and  life.  Are 
there  not  thousands  of  readers  who  are  satisfied  to 
read  nothing  else  but  the  latest  novel,  no  matter  how 
trashy  it  may  be  ?  Thousands,  indeed,  who  are  not 
bettering  their  minds  and  lives,  as  really  civilised 
people  should  try  to  do;  but  allowing  the  garden 
of  their  hearts  and  souls  to  become  laid  waste 
and  barren,  just  as  your  flower  garden  would 
soon  be,  if  you  turned  loose  in  it  the  poultry  and 
the  pigs. 

The  truth  with  such  readers  is,  that,  though  they 
enjoy  the  blessings  of  civilisation,  they  have  missed 
one  of  civilisation's  finest  products.  They  have  not 
good  taste,  their  taste  is  bad.  And  bad  taste  is  like 
a  poison.  If  it  is  allowed  to  remain  in  the  system 
it  will  in  time  affect  the  whole  body.  None  of  us 
can  make  a  habit  of  reading  trash  without  sooner 
or  later  becoming  trashy  and  cheap  and  common- 
place in  our  thoughts,  conversation,  choice  of  friends 
and  conduct. 

However,  as  you  are  reading  this  book,  I  hope  it 
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Color — \7alues — Subtlety 

is  a  sign  that  you  do  not  care  for  trashy  reading. 
So  let  us  get  back  to  the  subject  of  taste  in  matters 
of  color.  If  one  looks  back  over  the  past,  there  is 
no  doubt  that  as  people  became  more  civilised,  one 
of  the  ways  in  which  they  showed  improvement  was 
in  color  taste.  They  gradually  ceased  to  be  attract- 
ed only  by  the  brightness  of  color;  they  began  to 
find  beauty  in  the  relation  of  one  color  to  another; 
to  try  to  produce  a  harmony  of  colors. 

I  wonder  whether,  as  you  have  been  reading,  it  has 
occurred  to  you  to  think:  Why  does  the  author  ob- 
ject to  bright  colors?  He  says  we  learn  to  love 
color  by  studying  nature's  coloring.  Are  there  not 
bright  colors  in  nature?  Is  it  wrong  to  like  them? 

Certainly  not;  nor  do  I  object  to  bright  colors. 
I  am  often  delighted  with  them.  But,  in  the  first 
place,  bright  colors  do  not  look  the  same  in  nature 
as  they  do  in  a  parlor.  Secondly,  art,  as  we  have 
said  before,  is  different  to  nature.  The  artist  does 
not  imitate  everything  he  sees  in  nature,  but  from 
it  selects  this  and  that  to  make  his  work  of  art. 

Nothing  in  our  garden  makes  a  brighter  spot 
than  the  giant  poppy.  Its  wide  and  flaring  crimson 
cup,  stained  with  the  purple  of  its  stamens,  burns 
like  a  flame.  I  love  the  brave  show  poppies  make, 
ranged  at  intervals  along  the  borders  or  massed  in 
a  clump  with  a  setting  of  greenery  around  them. 
For,  to  prevent  their  brilliance  overpowering  the 
garden,  they  need  plenty  of  space  and  abundance  of 
contrasting  colors.  I  cannot  imagine  anything  more 
noisy  and  gaudy  than  a  little  yard  entirely  filled 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

with  them.  The  reason  they  need  space  is  that  they 
may  be  surrounded  with  plenty  of  atmosphere.  It 
is  this  which  makes  so  great  a  difference  between 
effects  of  color  out  of  doors  and  indoors.  Out  of 
doors  the  atmosphere  acts  like  a  veil,  softening  the 
sharpness  of  colors  and  forms  and  helping  to  draw 
them  together  into  a  unity  of  effect.  It  is  indeed, 
more  like  a  succession  of  veils,  for  between  us  and 
nearby  objects  is  a  certain  amount  of  atmosphere; 
while  objects  further  off,  and  still  further  off,  and 
further  off  still,  are  separated  from  us  by  con- 
tinually increasing  quantities  of  atmosphere.  And 
these  planes  of  atmosphere,  as  we  called  them  in 
Chapter  IV,  act  like  veils  of  gauze  through  which 
everything  is  seen.  As  I  have  said,  they  help  to 
subdue  the  colors  and  draw  them  into  relation  with 
one  another,  and  so  suggest  an  effect  of  harmony. 
In  a  room,  however,  especially  a  small  one,  we  can- 
not get  far  enough  away  from  objects  to  permit 
much  atmosphere  to  come  in  between.  There  is  not 
so  much  distance  to  lend  enchantment  to  the  view. 
Consequently,  though  we  may  enjoy  the  beauty  of 
a  few  of  those  poppies  in  a  bowl  on  our  table,  we 
should  find  a  carpet  or  curtains  or  sofa  of  the  same 
color  much  too  gaudy  and  overpowering.  The  ef- 
fect would  be  much  as  if,  while  the  piano  was  being 
played,  someone  should  blow  loudly  on  a  tin  horn. 
The  noise  would  disturb  the  harmony  of  the  music; 
we  should  shut  our  ears  or  turn  the  tin  horn  dis- 
turber out  of  the  room.  So  when  we  enter  a  gaudily 
furnished  room,  we  should  like  to  shut  our  eyes  to 

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Color — Values — Subtlety 

the  discord  of  color,  and,  if  we  had  our  way,  would 
banish  the  disturbing  objects  to  the  junk-shop. 

But  now  for  the  second  reason  why  some  of  na- 
ture's colors,  beautiful  in  themselves,  may  be  less 
so  when  introduced  into  a  room  or  picture.  For 
the  furnishing  of  a  room,  like  the  composing  of  a 
picture,  should,  as  far  as  possible,  be  a  work  of  art, 
and  the  artist,  as  you  recollect,  does  not  imitate  na- 
ture. He  selects  from  nature.  Out  of  her  unlim- 
ited storehouse  of  form  and  color  he  chooses  for  his 
purpose  some  few  effects  at  a  time  and  combines 
them  in  his  work  of  art;  guided  in  his  choice  and 
arrangement  by  the  principles  of  beauty  he  has  dis- 
covered in  nature,  particularly  by  the  principle  of 
harmony.  And  in  this  respect  he  has  an  advantage 
over  nature.  For  the  light  and  atmosphere  cannot 
choose  the  colors  and  objects  which  they  help  to 
harmonise.  Even  after  they  have  done  their  best, 
there  may  be  so  many  of  those  poppies  that,  while 
their  colors  are  subdued  and  brought  into  some  re- 
lation with  the  other  colors^  the  relationship  is  still 
too  distant — the  difference  between  the  two  colors 
too  wide — to  produce  a  perfect  harmony.  But  the 
artist,  since  he  can  pick  and  choose  what  he  will 
put  into  his  picture,  is  able  to  avoid  this  difficulty; 
just  as  a  young  couple  when  they  start  housekeep- 
ing can  generally  avoid  having  things  that  will  dis- 
turb the  harmonious  arrangement  of  their  parlor.  I 
say  "  generally,"  for  sometimes,  notwithstanding 
their  own  taste,  they  receive  from  some  kind  but 
tasteless  friend,  the  present  of  a  piece  of  furniture 

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that  plays  the  tin-horn  to  all  their  ideas  of  harmony. 
This  is  a  hard  case.  They  do  not  wish  to  offend 
Mrs.  So-and-so  or  Aunt  Jane,  and  yet  they  do  not 
like  having  to  live  with  something  offensive  to  their 
own  feelings! 

We  have  said  so  much  about  the  artist  working 
for  a  harmony  of  colors,  that  I  ought  to  warn  you 
that  you  will  not  see  color  harmonies  in  all  pictures. 
Por  a  great  many  painters  are  not  colorists.  Bou- 
guereau,  for  example,  was  interested  chiefly  in  form. 
If  he  represented  a  young  girl,  drawing  water  from 
a  well,  he  painted  her  flesh  pink;  her  dress,  per- 
haps, hlue;  the  stone-work  of  the  wall,  gray;  the 
wood  work  of  the  bucket,  brown ;  and,  if  there  was  a 
bush  in  the  picture,  of  course,  painted  it  green.  His 
only  purpose  in  choosing  this  color  or  that  color  was 
to  represent  the  general  appearances  of  the  figure  and 
other  objects.  He  only  saw  color,  never  felt  it.  He 
never  even  saw  it,  as  it  really  is ;  or  he  would  hardly 
have  painted  all  his  girls  and  women  the  same  kind 
of  pinky  or  creamy  china-color.  In  fact,  color  to 
him  was  quite  unimportant.  If  he  could  draw  the 
girl  beautifully  he  was  satisfied.  So  it  is  beautiful 
form  we  must  look  for  in  his  pictures;  the  color 
does  not  count. 

Then  there  is  another  kind  of  painter ;  Vibert,  for 
example,  whose  pictures  were  popular  in  this  coun- 
try. He  liked  to  paint  a  cardinal  in  a  scarlet  cas- 
sock, either  in  or  out  of  doors.  The  scarlet  makes 
a  big  bright  spot  in  the  pictures.  Vibert  was  evi- 
dently fond  of  color;  but  in  a  very  crude  or  unre- 

166 


Color — Values — Subtlety 

fined  sort  of  way.  He  had  the  primitive  man's  or 
child's  fondness  for  gay  or  brilliant  hues ;  and  since 
there  are  many  people  with  the  same  child-like  in- 
stinct, he  sold  his  pictures  easily.  He  too,  for  the 
most  part  only  saw  color.  Or,  if  he  felt  it  at  all, 
only  in  the  very  simple  way  of  liking  one  color 
better  than  another.  Color  never  stirred  in  him  deep 
feelings.  He  never  felt  it  as  a  musician  feels  sound. 
He  never  wove  the  related  colors  into  a  harmony. 
He  was  a  gay  painter,  but  not  a  colorist. 

I  wonder  whether  you  are  beginning  to  under- 
stand the  difference?  What  I  have  said  may  help 
to  point  the  way  to  an  understanding,  but  no  amount 
of  reading  can  make  you  feel  the  beauty  of  color, 
or  enter  into  the  feelings  of  an  artist  who  is  a  color- 
ist; and  enjoy  his  work.  This  you  can  only  do  for 
yourself  by  using  your  own  eyes.  Nor  do  I  mean 
by  this  that  you  should  now  and  then  look  at  a  pic- 
ture, or  once  in  a  while  open  your  eyes  to  the  beauty 
of  nature.  What  I  suggest  is  that  you  should  get 
into  the  habit  of  keeping  your  eyes  open  to  the 
beauty  of  the  world.  If  you  do,  you  will  have  your 
reward.  And  the  more  you  watch  out  for  beauty, 
and  so  train  your  feeling  and  taste,  the  more  you 
will  discover  beauty  in  unexpected  directions.  Espe- 
cially you  will  find  that  some  of  the  most  beautiful 
color  harmonies  are  made  up  of  colors,  that  a  little 
while  ago  you  would  not  have  felt  to  be  beautiful. 

It  is  not  difficult,  for  example,  to  enjoy  the  beauty 
of  nature's  coloring  when  the  sun  is  shining  brightly. 
But,  because  it  is  so  easy,  some  painters  who  are 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

colorists  will  not  care  to  represent  it  in  their  pic- 
tures. They  will  wait  for  what  they  call  a  gray 
day — when  the  sun  is  hidden  behind  clouds  of  mist. 
Or,  like  Corot,  they  will  prefer  the  early  morning 
or  late  evening,  when  the  sky  is  very  pale,  and  the 
colors  of  nature  are  very  subdued.  Or,  like  Whis- 
tler, who  painted  The  White  Girl,  a  girl  in  white, 
standing  on  a  white  rug  in  front  of  a  white  wall, 
they  will  choose  some  subject  in  which  the  differ- 
ence between  the  colors  is  very  slight.  In  a  word 
they  are  looking,  not  for  splendid  but  for  subtle 
harmonies.  Those  grand  Venetian  colorists  of  the 
Sixteenth  Century,  Titian,  Tintoretto,  and  Paul 
Veronese,  and  the  great  Flemish  colorist  of  the 
Seventeenth  Century,  Peter  Paul  Rubens,  for  the 
most  part  gloried  in  harmonies  of  splendour, 
Velasquez,  however,  Rubens's  contemporary,  whose 
life  was  spent  in  the  service  of  Philip  IV  of  Spain, 
proved  himself  to  be  one  of  the  world's  greatest 
colorists  by  the  soberness  and  subtlety  of  his  har- 
monies. A  large  part  of  his  work  consisted  in  paint- 
ing the  portraits  of  the  King,  the  Royal  Family, 
and  the  chief  State  officers.  The  taste  of  the  Court 
was  opposed  to  bright  colored  costumes;  indeed  the 
prevailing  colors  were  black  and  gray,  with  occa- 
sional touches  of  relief,  such  as  blue  or  pale  rose. 
Yet  out  of  these  few  colors  he  made  wonderful  har- 
monies. To  his  sensitive  eye  a  black  cloak  was  not 
a  mass  of  thick  darkness.  As  the  light  shone  upon 
the  various  surfaces  at  different  angles,  he  discov- 
ered all  sorts  of  nuances,  as  the  French  say,  or 

168 


Prince  Balthazar  Carlos.     Velasquez. 


Color — Values — Subtlety 

shades  and  degrees  of  lighter  and  darker  black,  in 
fact,  a  scale  of  tints  out  of  which  he  composed  a 
harmony.  It  was  the  same  way  with  the  grays  and 
drabs.  We  often  call  these  neutral  colors,  by  which 
we  mean  that  there  is  no  particular  color  in  them. 
But  Velasquez  did  not  look  at  grays  and  drabs  in 
this  way.  Having  to  paint  them  he  searched  them 
for  possibilities  of  beauty,  and  found  them  in  the 
nuances,  occasioned  by  the  action  of  light.  And  out 
of  the  scale  of  these  nuances  he  composed  harmonies. 

To  these  nuances  artists  have  given  a  name — 
values.  We  know  the  ordinary  use  of  the  word.  It 
represents  the  relation  of  something  to  a  certain 
fixed  standard.  Thus,  we  take  a  dollar  as  a  stand- 
ard ;  and  say  the  value  of  this  knife  is  fifty  cents,  or 
of  that  two  dollars.  These  knives  differ  in  value ;  or, 
on  the  other  hand,  we  may  have  two  or  more  knives 
that  correspond  in  value.  Or,  again,  if  some  of  you 
are  arranging  a  picnic  as  a  Dutch  treat,  one  of  the 
party  may  undertake  to  bring  ten  cents'  worth  of 
eggs,  another  ten  cents'  worth  of  crackers,  and  so 
on.  Though  every  one  of  twenty  boys  and  girls 
brings  something  different,  the  value  of  each  contri- 
bution is  the  same. 

Now  applying  this  to  colors,  you  may  see  that 
the  point  to  which  I  am  leading  you  is  this.  Just 
as  the  knife  varies  in  value  from  other  knives,  so 
may  one  tint  of  black  vary  from  another  tint  of 
black ;  one  tint  of  red  from  another  tint  of  red ;  one 
tint  of  yellow  from  another  tint  of  yellow.  Equally, 
since  a  certain  quantity  of  crackers  may  have  the 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

same  value  as  a  certain  quantity  of  cheese,  so  may 
a  certain  tint  of  red  have  the  same  value  as  a  cer- 
tain tint  of  yellow.  But  what  is  the  standard  "by 
which  one  kind  of  color  can  be  compared  with  an- 
other ? 

The  standard  of  value  adopted  by  a  painter,  is 
light.  The  value  of  any  color  depends  upon  the 
amount  of  light  reflected  from  it.  Thus,  if  you  look 
at  a  man  dressed  in  black,  you  will  notice  that  the 
black  upon  the  shoulder,  or  the  chest,  or  whatever 
part  receives  the  greatest  quantity  of  light,  will  seem 
less  black  than  those  parts  which  receive  less  light. 
And  it  may  be  only  in  the  hollows  or  shaded  parts 
that  the  black  looks  really  black.  Well,  each  one 
of  these  separate  degrees  of  black  represents  to  the 
painter  a  separate  value  of  black. 

Perhaps  you  will  say — Why  this  is  only  a  repe- 
tition of  what  was  said  about  the  painting  of  reflec- 
tions of  light  and  the  shadows  on  the  blue  skirt! 
You  are  right.  Then — why,  you  ask,  this  new  term 
— values  ?  Well,  it  was  when  the  modern  man  dis- 
covered that  the  painting  of  these  reflections  and 
shadows  could  be  made  a  means  of  producing  har- 
monies of  color;  that,  indeed,  harmonies  could  be 
produced  out  of  the  reflections  alone,  that  they  in- 
vented this  new  name.  They  had  discovered  a  new 
principle  of  harmony,  depending  upon  the  varieties 
of  light  on  color,  and  they  gave  to  these  varieties 
the  new  name  of  values.  "Not  that  the  principle  was 
really  a  new  one.  It  was  an  old  one  discovered  by 
Velasquez  and  at  the  same  time  by  the  Dutch — Ver- 

170 


Color— Values— Subtlety 

meer  among  them.1  But  about  1860  some  modern 
artists  from  studying  the  works  of  these  men  made 
a  new  discovery  of  the  principle. 

Before  discussing  the  importance  of  the  rediscov- 
ery, let  us  turn  back  to  the  other  use  of  that  word 
values.  If  you  remember,  the  word  is  used  not  only 
of  the  differences  in  degree  in  tint  of  some  one 
color;  for  example,  the  different  values  of  black,  of 
green,  of  red  and  so  on,  but  it  is  also  used  as  a 
standard  to  compare  a  color  of  one  hue  with  a  color 
of  another  hue.  Let  me  remind  you  of  that  Dutch 
treat  picnic  to  which  everybody  brought  a  contribu- 
tion of  equal  value.  I  need  not  tell  you  that  the  ten 
cents'  worth  of  soda  crackers  will  make  a  bigger 
parcel  than  the  ten  cents'  worth  of  cheese,  while  ten 
cents'  worth  of  ^ — — ?s  "  fine  chocolate  "  would  make 
a  very  small  parcel  indeed.  Now,  colors  differ  in 
the  same  way.  All  colors  throw  off  a  certain  quan- 
tity of  light,  but  the  amount  varies. 

You  remember,  we  said  that  the  cause  of  color 
was  the  fact,  that  light  which  is  made  up  of  all 
colors  penetrates  every  object  in  nature ;  that  each 
object  absorbs  a  certain  quantity  of  the  color  and 
throws  off  the  remainder.  And  that  this  remainder 
is  what  appears  to  our  eyes  as  the  color  of  the  object. 
But  while  we  think  of  this  remainder  as  color,  do 
not  let  us  forget  that  it  is  light.  And,  recollecting 
that  color  is  light,  we  can  understand  that  one  color 
has  more  or  less  light  in  it  than  another. 

'Turn  back  to  his  picture  and  see  how  all  this  that  we  are 
now  discussing  is  there  illustrated. 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

I  wish  to  make  sure  that  you  do  understand  this, 
so  let  us  try  to  illustrate  it.  We  are  in  the  habit  of 
estimating  things  by  percentage.  Suppose  then  that 
we  think  of  the  light  of  the  sun  as  representing  one 
hundred  points.  Scientists  have  discovered  that  ob- 
jects which  we  call  yellow  absorb  only  some  twenty 
of  these  points;  that,  in  fact,  the  quantity  of  light 
thrown  off  by  what  we  call  yellow,  or  in  other  words 
its  value,  is  some  eighty  per  cent.  What  we  call 
red,  however,  represents  some  sixty  per  cent,  of 
light;  green,  about  forty  per  cent. 

£Tow  supposing  an  artist  wishes  to  combine  these 
colors  in  a  Dutch  picnic;  if  he  wishes,  that  is  to 
say,  to  combine  these  colors,  so  that  they  will  con- 
tribute equally  to  the  whole  composition  of  color. 
He  will  use  a  great  deal  less  yellow  than  red,  and 
less  of  either  of  these  colors  than  green.  The  packet 
of  green,  like  the  crackers,  will  be  bigger  than  the 
cheese,  or  red;  the  yellow,  or  chocolate,  smallest  of 
all. 

Let  us  imagine  a  picture  that  will  illustrate  this. 
But  before  we  do  so  I  must  remind  you  that  what 
we  are  talking  about  is  color  harmonies,  and  par- 
ticularly those  harmonies  of  color  in  which  the 
modern  artist  delights.  He  learned  them,  as  I  have 
said,  from  Velasquez,  who  was  debarred  from  using 
brilliant  colors,  he  learned  them  also  from  the  old 
pictures  of  the  Dutchmen,  like  Vermeer;  lastly  he 
learned  them  from  studying  the  pictures  and  prints 
of  the  Japanese.  The  effect  of  all  these  examples 
was  to  make  him  prefer  subtlety  to  splendour. 

172 


Color — Values — Subtlety 

I  have  already  explained  the  meaning  of  subtlety 
and  subtle.  Both  are  derived  from  a  Latin  word 
which  means  "  finely  woven  " — fine  spun  threads  of 
silk  or  linen,  woven  closely  together  into  a  strong 
but  very  delicate  and  thin  fabric.  So  when  we 
speak  of  a  subtle  distinction  we  have  in  mind  a  dis- 
tinction that  is  very  slight;  as  between  two  tints  of 
yellow.  To  many  eyes  they  will  seem  the  same; 
whereas  an  eye  more  subtly  sensitive  to  degrees  of 
color  can  distinguish  the  difference.  We  may  say 
of  such  an  eye,  that  it  has  a  very  delicate  sense  of 
sight,  or  subtlety  of  vision.  Subtlety  implies  deli- 
cacy; and  when  we  speak  of  the  subtlety  of  an  ar- 
tist's color  harmonies — how  subtle  they  are — we 
have  in  mind  a  delicate,  exquisite,  refined  use  of 
color.  He  has  not  used  many  colors;  nor  obtained 
his  effects  by  force  of  strong  contrasts.  On  the  con- 
trary, it  is  by  subtle  relation  of  a  few  colors,  by 
the  subtle  differences  in  their  values  that  a  har- 
mony, distinguished  by  its  exquisite  delicacy,  is  pro- 
duced. 

Our  own  American  artist,  the  late  James  McNeill 
Whistler,  was  one  of  the  first  of  the  modern  artists 
to  paint  this  sort  of  harmony.  He  painted  four 
pictures  of  a  girl  in  a  white  dress,  which  he  after- 
wards entitled  "  Symphonies  in  White,"  numbering 
them  one,  two,  three,  and  four,  just  as  a  musician's 
works  are  distinguished  by  a  number.  For  Whistler 
felt  that  there  is  some  similarity  between  the  har- 
monies of  color  and  those  of  sound  notes,  and  tried 
in  his  pictures  to  produce  subtle  effects  as  musicians 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

do.  In  one  of  this  series  he  represents  the  girl  in 
a  white  dress,  standing  on  a  white  rug,  before  a 
white  wall.  The  only  variation  from  the  white  is 
afforded  by  her  dark  hair  and  the  flesh  coloring  of 
her  face  and  hands.  These  are  what  we  may  call 
"  accents  " — notes  of  color  that  stand  out  with  prom- 
inence and  decision.  The  rest  is  a  symphony  in 
white. 

He  might  have  made  his  problem  easier  by  throw- 
ing a  strong  light  upon  the  figure  from  one  side. 
This  would  have  made  some  parts  of  the  dress  shine 
out  with  the  brightness  of  very  high  lights,  and 
would  have  caused  the  figure  to  cast  a  shadow  on 
the  wall.  This  would  have  produced  a  harmony  of 
contrasts;  a  bold  contrast  of  color  values,  easier  to 
paint.  But  Whistler  was  intent  on  something  very 
subtle — a  harmony  of  similarities.  So  he  placed  the 
figure  in  a  dull  light,  that  was  evenly  distributed 
over  the  rug,  the  figure,  and  the  wall,  with  the  re- 
sult that  the  distinctions  between  the  color  values 
were  very  slight,  very  subtle.  This  means  that  it 
was  difficult  to  make  the  different  masses  of  white 
distinct  from  one  another.  The  artist,  you  see,  had 
to  make  it  appear  that  the  girl's  white  figure  was 
nearer  to  us  than  the  white  wall;  to  make  us  feel 
that,  while  the  wall  is  flat,  the  figure  has  roundness 
and  bulk;  and  that,  while  the  wall  is  an  upright 
surface,  the  rug  represents  a  horizontal  one.  Yes  it 
was  indeed  a  very  difficult  problem,  because  the  only 
possible  way  of  solving  it  was  to  render  the  very 
slight  differences  in  the  quantity  of  light,  reflected 

174 


Color — Values — Subtlety 

from  each  and  every  part  of  the  white  surfaces,  ac- 
cording to  the  angle  at  which  the  light  reached  any 
part,  and  the  distance  each  part  was  from  the  eye 
of  the  artist.  And  no  doubt  the  keen  mind  of  Whis- 
tler was  interested  in  the  subtlety  of  the  problem. 
But  this  was  not  all.  His  feeling  as  an  artist  was 
equally  subtle.  It  delighted  in  the  subtleties  of 
color  values. 

However,  he  also  enjoyed  effects  of  brighter  color. 
I  have  asked  you  to  imagine  this  picture  of  Whis- 
tler's because  it  illustrates  the  first  meaning  of 
"  values  " — namely  the  different  quantities  of  light 
that  may  be  contained  in  one  and  the  same  color. 
I  wish  to  illustrate  now  the  other  meaning  of 
"  values  " — which  has  to  do  with  the  quantity  of 
light  contained  in  one  color  as  compared  with  that 
in  another  color;  for  example,  with  the  percentage 
of  light  contained  in  red  as  compared  with  that  con- 
tained in  blue,  or  green,  or  white,  or  any  other 
color.  For  this  purpose  I  have  chosen  the  second  in 
Whistler's  series  of  symphonies  in  white :  The  Little 
White  Girl.  You  can  look  at  the  reproduction  and 
see  for  yourself  that  part  of  the  color  scheme,  or 
color  harmony,  certainly  the  most  important  part, 
consists  of  the  figure  of  the  girl  in  white.  You  will 
notice  how  it  illustrates  what  we  have  been  saying 
about  the  other  white  girl.  It  is  evenly  lighted, 
there  are  no  contrasts  of  extreme  light  and  dark ;  the 
dress  is  a  woven  tissue  of  subtly  different  values  of 
white.  But  in  this  case  Whistler  has  treated  the 
white  dress  as  the  theme  or  chief  motive,  as  a  musi- 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

cian  would  say,  and  has  woven  around  it  a  composi- 
tion of  variations.  It  is  the  variations  that  I  wish 
you  now  particularly  to  notice.  They  may  be  put 
under  two  heads.  First,  the  reflection  of  the  girl's 
head  in  the  mirror;  second,  the  various  spots  of 
color  that  surround  her. 

Suppose  we  begin  with  the  latter.  On  the  mantel- 
shelf, close  to  the  flesh-color  of  the  girl's  hand  and 
the  white  of  her  sleeve  is  a  Japanese  jar,  decorated 
in  white  and  blue,  and  beside  it  a  Japanese  box 
covered  with  that  smooth  shiny  surface  called  lac- 
quer, and  of  a  scarlet  color,  like  a  geranium.  Down 
below  appear  the  sprays  of  camelias  with  dark  green 
glossy  leaves  and  white  and  rosy  blossoms.  The  fan 
repeats  these  colors,  but  with  a  difference.  There 
is  red  in  it,  but  of  a  different  value  to  the  red  of 
the  box  and  flowers;  blue,  but  of  another  value 
than  that  on  the  vase;  green,  which  differs  in  value 
from  the  leaves.  Secondly,  in  the  mirror  is  a  repe- 
tition of  the  girl's  head  and  of  certain  colors  in  the 
room.  But  the  reflected  head,  as  you  can  see  in  the 
reproduction,  is  in  a  lower  key  than  the  real  one. 
The  colors  are  lower  in  value;  there  is  not  so  much 
light  in  them;  for  the  mirror  has  absorbed  some  of 
it.  You  may  test  a  mirror's  appetite  for  light  by 
holding  your  handkerchief  close  to  it.  You  will  see 
that  the  white  of  the  reflection  is  much  greyer  than 
the  handkerchief,  or  according  to  the  quality  of  the 
glass,  it  may  seem  slightly  blue.  At  any  rate  its 
value  will  be  lower  than  that  of  the  handkerchief; 
just  as'  in  this  picture,  the  reflected  colors  of  the 

176 


The  Little  White  Girl.     J.  M.  Whistler. 


Color— Values— Subtlety 

flesh  and  hair  are  lower  in  value  than  the  actual 
head. 

Now,  looking  at  the  picture,  we  note  that  the  fig- 
ure occupies  about  one  half  of  the  composition.  It 
illustrates,  as  did  The  Sower,  the  use  of  a  main 
diagonal  line,  though  the  feeling  suggested  by  it  is 
different.  In  The  Sower,  you  will  remember,  the 
diagonal  helped  to  give  vigor  and  alertness  to  the 
figure;  while  here,  on  the  contrary,  its  suggestion 
is  one  of  very  gracious  quiet.  For  the  slope  of  this 
diagonal  is  not  so  steep  as  in  the  other  picture;  nor 
do  the  directions  of  the  arms  and  head  present  such 
abrupt  contrasts.  The  left  arm  it  is  true,  is  nearly 
at  right  angles — itself  a  strong  contrast;  but  it  is  so 
quietly  laid  along  the  mantel-shelf,  which  supports 
its  weight,  that  there  is  no  suggestion  of  effort. 
Meanwhile,  the  other  arm,  hanging  so  easily,  is  al- 
most parallel  to  the  main  diagonal.  The  line  also 
of  the  neck  gently  carries  on  the  lines  of  the  shoul- 
ders, and,  as  the  head  is  slightly  tilted  back,  its 
downward  pressure  is  supported  by  the  shoulder  that 
rests  on  the  shelf.  The  whole  suggestion  of  the  fig- 
ure, in  fact,  is  one  of  rest.  There  is  no  conscious 
bodily  effort  to  interfere  with  the  reverie  in  which 
the  girl's  mind  is  wrapt  She  may  be  buried  in  her 
thoughts,  or  she  may  be  absorbed  in  the  beauty  of 
the  box  and  vase,  at  which  she  seems  to  be  looking. 
"  Seems,"  I  say,  for  it  is  difficult  to  be  sure  that  she 
is  conscious  of  them.  Her  gaze  seems  fixed  to  a  far 
vision,  as  if  she  had  begun  by  looking  at  these  ob- 
jects, and  then,  as  her  thoughts  passed  beyond  them, 

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'A  Guide  to  Pictures 

had  let  the  gaze  of  her  eyes  follow.  She  seems 
buried  in  some  girlish  reverie,  wrapt  "  in  maiden 
meditation,  fancy  free."  To  me  it  is  a  very  lovely 
figure  not  because  of  the  features  of  the  face — 
opinions  may  differ  about  the  face  being  beautiful 
in  the  ordinary  sense  of  having  beautiful  features. 
Its  beauty  to  me  lies  in  its  expression;  in  its  ex- 
pression of  some  lovely  mood  of  a  girl's  spirit.  And 
I  find  the  figure  beautiful,  because  all  through  it  is 
the  movement  of  the  same  expression.  This  must 
have  been  in  Whistler's  mind  when  he  painted  her. 
But  he  was  conscious,  perhaps,  of  another  side  of 
her  nature;  that  she  had  moods  of  brightness  as 
well.  At  any  rate  he  chose  to  contrast  with  the 
pensive  calm  of  the  girl  herself  the  bright  animated 
spots  of  color  that  surround  her. 

These  spots  of  color,  if  you  examine  the  picture 
carefully,  really  play  the  part  of  the  shadows  in  the 
chiaroscuro  of  old  pictures.  Chiaroscuro,  you  re- 
member, is  the  pattern  of  light  and  dark.  Here  the 
red  box  and  the  blue  of  the  vase  and  the  green  and 
rose,  of  the  camelias,  yes,  and  even  the  face  in  the 
mirror,  the  marble  shelf  and  fireplace — all  repre- 
sent the  dark  spots.  But  not  dark  in  the  old  way 
of  being  shadows.  They  are  dark  as  compared  with 
the  white  of  the  dress,  because  their  colors  reflect 
less  light  than  the  white;  their  values  are  lower. 
Thus  they  serve  the  purposes  of  a  dark  contrast  and 
yet  they  themselves  are  very  light.  This,  in  a  Hut- 
shell,  is  what  the  new  study  of  values,  that  was 
learnt  from  Velasquez  and  from  Yermeer,  and  the 

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Color — Values — Subtlety 

other  Dutchmen,  really  means.  It  has  enabled  the 
artist  to  be  even  more  true  to  life  in  the  representa- 
tion of  objects,  and  at  the  same  time  to  make  his 
color-harmonies  purer,  clearer  and  more  transparent; 
in  one  word,  luminous;  permeated,  that  is  to  say, 
with  a  suggestion  of  light,  that  in  nature  permeates 
the  atmosphere  and  brings  all  objects  into  an  ap- 
pearance of  harmonious  unity. 

How  this  particular  picture  is  helped  by  a  con- 
trast, not  of  the  old  fashioned  dark  and  light,  as  in 
the  Descent  from  the  Cross  but  of  values  of  color, 
you  can  see  for  yourself,  even  from  the  reproduc- 
tion. Still  more  would  you  realize  it  could  you  see 
the  freshness  and  purity  and  gladsomeness  of  the 
original.  Contrasts  are  needful  in  the  composition 
of  a  work  of  art — they  are  one  of  the  sources  of  its 
beauty.  But  imagine  if  you  can,  having  shadows 
and  darkness  brought  into  contrast  with  this  white 
robed  figure!  How  they  would  contradict  the  ex- 
pression of  its  exquisite  purity  and  loveliness !  As 
it  is,  the  contrast  of  lower  values  does  not  in  the 
least  jar  upon  the  expression;  on  the  contrary,  it 
gives  it  a  greater  meaning,  since  it  suggests  the  at- 
mosphere of  happiness  and  brightness  that  has  helped 
to  color  the  beauty  of  the  girl's  spirit. 


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CHAPTEK   XV 
COLOR  (Continued)— TEXTURE,  ATMOSPHERE,  TONE 

IN  our  previous  talk  about  color  we  have  laid 
great  stress  on  the  relation  of  one  color  to  an- 
other. We  have  not  thought  of  red,  for  example, 
as  beautiful  by  itself,  but  as  one  of  a  family  of 
colors,  whose  beauty  consists  in  their  relation  to  one 
another.  And  this  related  beauty  we  have  spoken 
of  as  color  harmony. 

"  Behold  how  good  and  joyful  a  thing  it  is, 
brethren,  to  dwell  together  in  unity."  So  said  the 
Psalmist,  and  his  words  might  be  applied  to  the 
unity  of  colors.  He  did  not  mean  that  everybody 
shall  be  of  a  like  mind;  there  will  always  be  differ- 
ences of  character  among  relations  and  the  best  of 
friends ;  but  they  will  agree  to  differ ;  and  their  very 
differences  make  their  unity  or  harmony  the  more 
real  and  good.  Such  is  the  harmony  among  colors; 
a  union  of  differences  or  contrasts,  as  well  as  of 
similarities;  of  variety  of  values  of  color  related 
into  a  harmonious  unity. 

On  the  other  hand,  though  the  beauty  of  colors  is 
chiefly  to  be  found  in  their  relations  to  one  an- 
other, there  are  separate  possibilities  of  beauty  to 
each  color.  And  if  each  displays  its  own  share  of 

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Color — Texture,  Atmosphere,  Tone 

these  the  general  beauty  of  the  harmony  will  be  in- 
creased. Some  of  the  possibilities  are  texture,  qual- 
ity, and  tone. 

Texture  first.  It  is  derived  from  the  Latin  word, 
iextum, — something  woven.  Texture,  in  its  original 
meaning,  represents  what  has  been  produced  by 
weaving.  A  lady,  when  she  is  shopping,  presses  the 
linen  or  silk,  or  cotton  goods  between  her  fingers  in 
order  to  judge  of  their  texture ;  whether  it  is  closely 
or  loosely  woven,  whether  it  is  hard  or  smooth  to  the 
touch.  Secondly,  the  word  is  used  of  a  thing  made 
by  any  other  means  than  weaving.  We  speak,  for 
example,  of  the  texture  of  paper;  and  judge  of  its 
texture  by  the  feel  of  it  Thirdly,  it  has  come 
to  be  used  of  any  material,  whether  made  by 
man  or  nature.  Thus  we  say  that  oak  has  a  very 
close  texture;  glass  is  of  firm  but  brittle  texture; 
butter  is  greasy  in  texture,  and  so  on.  Finally,  the 
word  is  used  in  a  very  general  way  to  describe  the 
character  of  any  substance,  especially  the  kind  of 
surface  that  it  has.  So  we  say  of  the  flesh  of  a 
healthy  baby,  that  its  texture  is  firm  and  silky ;  and 
we  speak  of  the  glossy  texture  of  a  polished  table; 
the  downy  texture  of  a  young  chicken's  breast,  or 
the  velvety  texture  of  a  peach.  In  one  word,  texture 
is  the  quality  of  a  thing  that  we  discover  by  touch- 
ing it 

Texture  appeals  to  our  sense  of  touch.  It  ex- 
cites in  us  a  variety  of  feelings,  pleasant  or  unpleas- 
ant. I  need  not  tell  you  how  disagreeable  the  tex- 
ture of  sharp  rocks  may  be  to  your  bare  feet,  when 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

you  are  bathing;  what  a  relief  it  is  to  them  to  feel 
the  texture  of  sand.  Some  of  you,  I  am  sure,  are 
conscious  of  the  pleasure  you  derive  from  handling 
things.  You  have  discovered  for  yourselves  what 
a  lot  of  feeling  you  have  in  the  tips  of  your  fingers. 
You  would  enjoy  handling  the  red  box  in  Whistler's 
picture:  and  your  touch  would  be  very  careful  and 
delicate.  ISTot  alone  because  the  box  is  valuable,  but 
because  it  is  only  with  a  delicate  touch  that  you  can 
appreciate  the  exquisite  smoothness  of  the  lacquer. 

The  latter  is  a  varnish  composed  of  the  gum  of  a 
certain  tree.  The  Japanese  workman  lays  it  over 
the  box  very  thinly,  and,  when  it  is  thoroughly 
dried,  rubs  the  surface  until  it  is  perfectly  smooth. 
Then  he  applies  another  coating  of  lacquer  and 
again  rubs,  continuing  the  process  several  times, 
until  at  last,  the  surface  shows  not  a  single  flaw  or 
inequality,  and  is  smooth  and  silky  beyond  the 
description  of  any  words.  It  is  only  by  the  look  of 
it,  and  still  more,  by  the  feel  of  it,  that  you  can  ap- 
preciate the  exquisite  finish  of  the  surface;  and 
your  delight  in  it  is  mingled  with  almost  a  rever- 
ence for  the  patience  and  love  of  the  craftsman,  who 
could  work  so  long  and  so  faithfully  to  make  this 
little  work  of  art  perfect  in  its  beauty  and  beautiful 
in  its  perfection.  Compared  with  this  lacquer  box, 
the  texture  of  an  ordinary  polished  table  or  piano 
seems  coarse  and  commonplace. 

I  might  go  on  to  speak  of  the  different  kinds  of 
sensation  that  you  would  enjoy  if  you  touched  the 
waxy  petals  of  the  camelia.  But  it  is  not  necessary. 

182 


Color — Texture,  Atmosphere,  Tone 

For  if  you  have  a  joy  in  the  sense  of  touch  I  need 
not  try  to  tell  you  about  it.  I  will  only  ask  you  to 
wait  a  few  minutes,  until  we  see  how  the  enjoyment 
derived  from  texture  enters  into  the  appreciation  of 
a  picture. 

Meanwhile,  if  any  of  you  have  not  as  yet  been 
conscious  of  getting  this  sort  of  pleasure  through 
your  fingers,  let  me  say  that  this  does  not  prove 
that  you  have  no  feeling  for  textures.  I  think  that 
you  have  had  it  unconsciously ;  for  I  suspect  that  the 
pleasure  that  you  take  in  flowers  is  not  only  because 
of  their  shape  and  color.  As  you  have  examined 
the  beauty  of  roses,  the  texture  of  their  petals  has 
not  escaped  you.  In  one  case,  how  silky ;  in  another, 
how  softly  crumpled;  in  another,  how  delicately 
waxen!  You  may  never  have  put  these  ideas  into 
words,  or  even  been  conscious  of  them;  but  do  you 
not  see,  now  I  mention  these  textures,  that  they 
have  had  a  good  deal  to  do  with  your  pleasure  in 
the  roses?  It  may  be,  after  all,  the  difference  in 
the  texture  that  makes  you  prefer  one  rose  to  an- 
other. 

However,  whether  this  be  so  or  not,  the  fact  re- 
mains that  a  great  number  of  people  derive  pleasure 
from  the  textures  of  objects.  So  let  us  now  see  how 
the  artist,  who,  as  I  have  said  before,  has  instincts 
and  feelings  like  our  own,  takes  advantage  of  this 
feeling  for  texture  to  add  to  the  beauty  of  his  pic- 
ture. 

We  shall  often  see  a  picture  in  which  the  textures 
are  not  represented.  Even  modern  pictures  some- 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

times  fail  in  this  respect;  and  it  is  a  very  common 
fault  with,  early  American  pictures,  painted  by  ar- 
tists who  had  not  the  advantage  of  training  that  the 
modern  student  enjoys.  I  will  quote  the  case  of 
John  Singleton  Copley,  a  very  famous  painter  of  the 
Colonial  Period,  who  lived  in  Boston  and  made 
portraits  of  the  well-to-do  men  and  women  of  the 
time,  just  preceding  the  Revolution.  Before  the 
latter  broke  out,  he  went  to  England,  where  he  spent 
the  rest  of  his  life  and  was  highly  thought  of.  His 
portraits  are  handsome  as  pictures  for  they  repre- 
sent men  and  women,  mostly  of  elegant  manners  in 
handsome  clothes.  They  also  give  the  impression  of 
being  good  likenesses.  Yet  his  pictures  lack  anima- 
tion. The  figures  and  the  costumes  are  stiff  and 
hard.  This  is  partly  due  to  there  being  no  sugges- 
tion of  atmosphere  surrounding  them.  The  picture 
is  not  filled  with  air  and  light,  as  we  found  Ver- 
meer's  was.  But  there  is  another  reason.  Copley 
was  unskilful  in  the  presentation  of  textures. 

The  flesh  and  hair,  the  materials  of  the  costumes, 
the  furniture  and  ornaments,  present  no  differences 
of  texture.  All  seem  to  have  a  uniformly  hard  sur- 
face, as  if  they  were  made  of  wood  or  tin.  The  re- 
sult is  that  the  whole  picture  seems  hard  and  stiff- — 
lacking  in  animation.  If  you  ask  me  why  this  lack 
of  animation  is  caused  by  the  artist's  neglect  of 
textures,  I  think  the  answer  is  that  Copley  has  not 
given  to  everything  in  his  picture  its  own  separate, 
particular  character.  For  when  you  come  to  think 
of  it, — and  the  dictionary  meaning  of  the  word 

184 


Color — Texture,  Atmosphere,  Tone 

textures,  bears  me  out — the  character  of  everything 
depends  so  much  upon  its  texture;  whether  it  is 
hard  or  soft,  smooth  or  rough,  glossy  or  dull,  and 
so  on.  Now,  if  there  were  a  number  of  girls  and 
boys  in  the  rooma  all  sitting  round  with  the  same 
dull  expression  on  their  faces,  we  should  say  that 
the  whole  group  lacked  animation.  What  makes  a 
party  animated  and  lively,  is  the  fact  that  it  is  com- 
posed of  a  number  of  persons,  each  having  a  sepa- 
rate character  to  which  he  or  she  gives  free  play. 
The  more  easily  and  naturally  each  exhibits  his  or 
her  character,  the  more  animated  and  lively  will  be 
the  fun  of  the  party. 

Now,  do  you  not  see  how  this  applies  to  a  picture  ? 
The  artist  invites  a  number  of  different  textures  to 
his  party  or  composition.  Surely  the  party  will  be 
lacking  in  animation  if  he  does  not  bring  out  the 
special  character  of  each.  The  lady's  face  and  hands 
will  not  contribute  their  full  share  to  the  animation 
of  the  whole  composition,  unless  the  character  of 
their  texture  is  expressed.  It  will  not  be  enough  to 
represent  only  the  coloring  of  the  flesh,  for  its  beauty 
depends  also  upon  its  firmness  and  softness.  Her 
satin  dress  will  lose  half  its  charm,  if  we  are  only 
made  to  see  its  shine  and  gloss.  We  know  satin  to 
be  also  soft  and  thin,  ready  to  arrange  itself  in  all 
sorts  of  delicate  folds.  This  is  a  chief  charm  in  the 
character  of  satin;  and  if  this  particular  satin  does 
not  exhibit  these  qualities  of  texture,  the  dress  will 
not  do  its  proper  share  in  helping  the  animation  of 
the  figure.  Well!  if  you  agree  with  me  about  the 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

satin  dress,  I  think  that  you  will  see  that  the  same 
thing  holds  good  of  the  table  on  which  her  arm  is 
resting,  and  the  glass  vase  with  carnations  in  it  that 
stands  near  her  hand.  Do  you  not  think  that  the 
character  of  the  hand  will  be  better  expressed,  if  the 
separate  characters  also  of  the  polished  wood,  the 
hard  shiny  cut  glass,  and  the  soft  velvety  flowers 
are  playing  their  part  ?  They  may  not  be  so  impor- 
tant as  the  woman  and  her  dress,  but  in  a  composi- 
tion as  in  a  party,  everybody  must  do  their  share, 
if  the  affair  is  to  be  a  complete  success. 

The  first  great  masters  in  the  rendering  of  tex- 
tures were  the  old  Flemish  artists  of  the  Fifteenth 
Century — the  brothers  Hubert  and  Jan  van  Eyck, 
for  example,  and  Hans  Memling.  Their  country, — 
what  we  now  call  Belgium — had  long  been  famous 
for  its  textiles.  Silks,  linens,  cloths  and  velvets — 
its  gold  and  silver  and  other  metal  work,  its  manu- 
facture and  decorating  of  glass.  The  Flemish  were 
a  nation  of  craftsmen,  skilled  in  the  production  of 
the  most  beautiful  articles  of  domestic  use  and 
church  worship.  And  this  love  for  objects  of  beau- 
tiful workmanship  was  shared  by  her  painters.  They 
represented  them  in  their  pictures.  They  "painted 
not  only  the  character  of  the  men  and  women  of 
the  time,  but  the  character  of  the  life  in  which  they 
lived,  and  did  this  by  surrounding  them  with  the 
furniture  and  objects  that  gave  distinction  to  their 
lives.  So  the  very  rug  on  the  floor,  the  glass  in  the 
windows,  the  mirror  on  the  wall  in  its  highly 
wrought  frame,  as  well  as  the  clothes  worn  by  these 

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Color — Texture,  Atmosphere,  Tone 

quiet,  serious  men  and  women,  have  a  choiceness  of 
feeling.  The  room  is  not  simply  furnished,  much 
less  is  it  cluttered  up  with  all  kinds  of  tasteless  De- 
partment Store  "  objets  d'art."  Every  thing  in  it 
has  its  own  distinction  of  beauty,  suggesting  the 
taste  and  refinement  of  its  owners,  and  so  by  its 
own  character  contributing  to  our  appreciation  of 
the  character  of  the  men  and  women  in  the  picture. 
Another  great  master  of  texture  was  the  German 
artist  of  the  Sixteenth  Century,  Hans  Holbein  the 
younger.  He  too  loved  things  of  delicate  and  ex- 
quisite craftsmanship  and  often  made  designs  of 
such  things  for  the  workmen  of  his  native  city, 
Augsburg.  So  he  was  fond  of  introducing  such  ar- 
ticles into  his  pictures.  It  was  a  joy  to  him  to 
paint  them,  each  one  with  its  own  individual  char- 
acter of  texture.  Still,  notwithstanding  his  love  of 
them,  he  only  puts  them  into  his  pictures  when  their 
character  will  help  the  character  of  his  main  sub- 
ject. So,  when  he  paints  the  portrait  of  a  rich 
^merchant  of  taste,  like  Georg  Gyze  in  his  office,  he 
surrounds  him  with  many  objects  related  to  his 
work — inkpot,  seal,  scissors,  ledger,  and  can  for 
holding  string,  letters,  and  a  scale,  for  weighing 
money.  There  is  a  profusion  of  beautifully  fash- 
ioned objects,  but  they  all  by  their  separate  char- 
acters help  us  to  understand  more  fully  the  character 
of  the  merchant  himself.  On  the  other  hand,  since 
characterization  was  Holbein's  main  purpose,  he 
treats  the  portrait  of  the  great  scholar  Erasmus,  dif- 
ferently. Here  he  introduces  only  a  small  writing 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

desk,  a  sheet  of  paper  on  it,  and  a  pen  in  the 
scholar's  hand.  These  remind  us  that  Erasmus  was 
a  writer;  while  the  handsome  rings  on  his  fingers 
and  a  piece  of  finely  woven  material  on  the  wall, 
tell  us  of  another  side  of  his  character — that  beside 
his  love  of  learning,  he  had  a  taste  for  the  beautiful 
things  of  life. 

Looking  back  then  over  what  we  have  been  say- 
ing, we  find  that  when  the  artist  suggests  to  us  the 
different  kinds  of  sensation  we  may  receive  from 
touching  things,  he  greatly  increases  the  expressive- 
ness of  his  pictures.  By  rendering  or  representing 
the  textures,  as  well  as  the  form  and  color  of  objects, 
he  accomplishes  at  least  four  results.  Firstly,  he 
makes  the  objects  more  life-like;  we  feel  as  if  we 
might  really  handle  them  and  receive  the  sensation 
that  such  objects,  if  they  were  real,  would  give  us. 
Secondly,  he  gives  us  a  more  keen  enjoyment  of 
their  beauty;  consciously  or  unconsciously  we  re- 
ceive a  sensation  of  the  pleasure  of  handling  them. 
Thirdly,  the  increased  life-likeness  and  beauty  in-(| 
creases  the  general  animation  of  the  whole  picture. 
Fourthly,  this  rendering  of  the  separate  character  of 
each  object  contributes  to  our  understanding  and 
appreciation  of  the  character  of  the  whole  subject.  ^ 
To  sum  up,  the  rendering  *  of  textures  suggests 
reality,  beauty,  animation^  and  character. 

*  *  *  •»  #  '         # 

Atmosphere  we  have  already  alluded  to  in  pre- 
yious  d&apters.  We  saw  how  Vermeer  filled  the 
scene  of  his  picture  with  lighted  air;  and,  in  die- 

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Color — Texture,  Atmosphere,  Tone 

cussing  color,  we  talked  of  it  first  as  light,  and  then 
went  on  to  study  how  the  light  which  is  in  the  air 
affects  the  light  which  is  reflected  from  all  objects 
that  are  visible.  We  found  that  colors  differ  from 
one  another  in  the  quantity  of  light  they  contain? 
in  what  artists  call  their  values;  the  value  of  red, 
for  example,  being  different  from  the  value  of  blue 
or  green.  Also  we  found  that  each  single  color  may 
have  variations  of  value,  according  to  the  quantity 
and  direction  of  the  light  which  falls  upon  it. 

All  this,  you  may  say,  has  more  to  do  with  light 
than  atmosphere.  But  the  two  are  really  united. 
What  we  call  atmosphere,  as  you  know,  is  the  vol- 
ume of  gases  which  surrounds  the  earth.  The  par- 
ticles from  these  gases  are  lit  up  by  the  light.  We 
cannot  see  the  particles,  only  the  reflections  of  light 
thrown  off  by  them.  But  though  we  cannot  see  the 
particles  themselves,  they  can  interfere  with  our 
seeing  of  other  things.  It  is  the  layers  or  veils  of 
atmosphere  that  lie  between  us  and  a  distant  hill, 
that  prevent  our  seeing  the  bright  green  grass  on 
the  latter  and  the  dark  green  fir  trees.  Seen  througK 
the  atmosphere,  the  colors  of  the  hill  appear  sub- 
dued, the  very  form  and  bulk  of  the  ground  flat- 
tened and,  perhaps,  indistinct. 

This  effect  of  atmosphere  is  one  of  the  things  that 
we  are  now  going  to  discuss.  The  other  is  that 
atmosphere  penetrates  everywhere.  Suppose  we  be- 
gin with  the  second  point.  The  atmosphere  is  in 
one  respect  like  water ;  it  is  a  fluid.  It  flows  in  and 
out  and  around  about  and  fills  the  whole  space  that 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

is  not  occupied  by  some  o£her  body.  But  have  you 
thought  what  this  means  to  an  artist?  Or  at  least 
to  some  artists;  for  we  said  that  Copley's  pictures 
contained  little  or  no  suggestion  of  atmosphere. 
And  the  same  may  be  said  of  a  great  many  pictures 
by  modern  artists.  They  represent  the  form  and 
color  of  things,  but  do  not  suggest  that  they  are  sur- 
rounded, or,  as  is  often  said,  enveloped  in  atmos- 
phere. 

Why  is  this  ?  Well !  in  the  first  place,  as  you  re- 
member, there  are  many  artists  who  do  not  profess 
to  represent  nature.  When  they  use  nature  as  a 
model,  it  is  for  the  purpose  only  of  getting  the  forms 
of  nature,  and  these  they  improve  upon,  as  they 
will  tell  you,  so  as  to  make  the  forms  in  their  pic- 
ture "  ideally  perfect."  These  "  Academic "  or 
"  classic "  painters  l  as  I  have  already  said,  think 
of  art  as  separate  from  nature.  On  the  other  hand, 
even  among  those  who  think  of  art  as  a  means  of 
interpreting  nature,  there  are  many  artists  who  never 
put  atmosphere  into  their  pictures.  Or,  if  they  do, 
it  is  not  nature's  atmosphere. 

Then  what  sort  of  atmosphere  is  it?     I  call  it  a 

studio   atmosphere,  because  it  is  manufactured  in 

the  studio.     The  artist,  feeling  the  need  of  softening 

the  hard  outlines  of  his  figures  and  of  subduing  any 

harshness   of  color,   spreads   over  the  picture  thin 

layers    of    transparent,     slightly    colored    varnish. 

Through  these  glazes,  as  they  are  called,  the  forms 

and  colors  are  seen,  somewhat  as  if  you  were  look- 

» See  page  88. 

190 


Color — Texture,  Atmosphere,  Tone 

ing  at  them  through  a  piece  of  colored  glass,  and 
the  effect  is  to  merge  or  bathe  them  in  a  glow  of 
atmosphere. 

This  was  a  usual  practice  with  the  great  colorists 
of  the  Italian  Renaissance.  Correggio's  pictures,  for 
example,  are  prized  for  their  golden  glow.  It  is  one 
of  the  reasons  of  their  beauty.  But  then,  his  idea 
was  not  to  interpret  nature.  His  subjects  were 
drawn  from  the  Bible,  or  the  Christian  religion,  or 
Greek  Mythology,  and  he  treated  them  as  his  imagi- 
nation suggested.  He  saw  them  through  the  glow 
of  his  own  imagination,  and  surrounded  them  with 
a  glow  that  seems  to  place  them  far  away  from  ac- 
tual things  in  a  beautiful  world  of  their  own.  Sim- 
ilarly, modern  colorists,  when  they  create  pictures 
out  of  their  own  imagination,  will  suffuse  them  with 
an  artificial  atmosphere  that  helps  to  express  the 
spirit  of  the  scene.  In  fact,  these  atmospheric  ef- 
fects, produced  by  glazing,  are  beautiful  and  proper 
in  their  place.  But  their  place  is  not  in  pictures 
that  profess  to  be  studies  of  nature.  In  these  it  is 
as  wrong  to  suggest  an  unnatural  atmosphere,  as  it 
is  to  leave  out  all  suggestion  of  atmosphere  whatso- 
ever, which  is,  perhaps,  the  more  usual  fault. 

Since  the  true  rendering  of  atmosphere  is  a  part  of 
the  true  representation  of  light  and  color,  you  will  not 
be  surprised  to  learn  that  it  appeared  in  the  pictures 
of  Velasquez  and  of  the  Dutchmen  of  the  Seven- 
teenth Century.  We  have  already  spoken  of  it  in 
the  case  of  Vermeer.  It  was  from  these  artists 
that  modern  colorists,  beginning  about  1860,  have 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

learned  to  study  the  effects  of  atmosphere  and  light. 
They  have  carried  the  study  even  further  than  the 
older  men.  Indeed,  the  rendering  of  light  and  at- 
mosphere has  been  the  most  distinct  triumph  of  mod- 
ern painting.  There  are  two  reasons  for  this. 

One  is,  that  with  the  advance  of  scientific  studies 
and  mechanical  inventions,  people  have  become 
more  than  ever  interested  in  the  every  day  facts  of 
life;  and  the  writers,  painters,  and  sculptors,  fol- 
lowing with  the  stream,  have  studied  more  and  more 
how  to  represent  life  and  its  surroundings,  not  as 
we  may  dream  they  should  be,  but  as  they  are 
known  to  our  actual  experience.  They  have  become 
ardent  "realists"  or  "naturalists."  "  Kealists," 
because  they  are  occupied  with  what  we  are  in  the 
habit  of  calling  the  realities  of  life.1  "  Naturalists," 
because  they  love  nature  and  try  to  represent  her 
actual  appearances,  as  they  are  enveloped  in  and 
affected  by  light  and  atmosphere. 

The  second  cause  of  the  modern  advance  in  ren- 
dering these  qualities  is  again  due  to  scientific  dis- 
coveries. Scientific  men  have  made  a  close  study  of 
light  and  color  and  the  painters  have  profited  by 
the  results.  Painting,  in  a  measure,  has  joined 
hands  with  science. 

However,  now  that  we  have  seen  why  some  artists 
do  not  put  atmosphere  into  their  pictures,  and 

1  Later  on  I  shall  have  something  to  say  about  these  so  called 
realists.  I  shall  say  to  them,  as  Hamlet  said  to  Horatio,  "There 
are  more  things  in  Heaven  and  earth  than  are  dreamt  of  in  our 
philosophy." 

192 


The  Mystic  Marriage  of  St.  Catharine.     Correggio. 


Color — Texture,  Atmosphere,  Tone 

that  among  those  who  do  some  manufacture  an  at- 
mosphere of  their  own,  while  others  try  to  render 
nature's  atmosphere,  let  us  study  for  ourselves  the 
effect  of  atmosphere  in  nature.  It  will  help  us,  if  I 
begin  by  telling  what  we  expect  to  find.  First  then, 
that  the  outlines  of  objects  are  softened;  secondly, 
that  the  bulk  of  things  seems  flattened ;  and  thirdly, 
that  as  objects  recede  or  stand  further  off  from  our 
eyes,  their  forms  becomes  more  and  more  indistinct 
and  their  colors  change. 

As  to  the  first.  Suppose  you  are  standing  on  a 
street  or  country  road,  and  a  wagon  passes  you. 
While  it  is  close  in  front  of  you,  the  body  of  the 
wagon  and  the  wheels  and  the  man  driving,  all  are 
clearly  outlined;  you  can  distinguish  distinctly  the 
parts  of  the  wagon  and  the  character  of  the  man's 
figure,  whether  it  is  fat  or  thin,  strong  or  weak- 
looking,  and  so  on.  But,  as  the  wagon  passes  along 
the  road,  its  appearance  changes.  At  first,  it  is  the 
smaller  details  that  disappear;  they  have  become 
merged  in  the  general  mass ;  then  the  outlines  of  this 
mass  grow  less  and  less  distinct;  you  could  not  be 
sure  now,  unless  you  had  seen  the  wagon  close,  ex- 
actly what  its  build  is;  nor  does  one  part  seem 
nearer  to  you  than  another,  its  bulk  has  become 
flattened,  and  gradually  the  whole  affair  looks  to  be 
only  a  patch  of  color  against  the  color  of  the  road. 

Do  you  remember,  it  was  as  patches  we  saw  the 
cows  which  we  met  early  in  our  talk?  The  reason 
then  given  for  their  appearance  was  that  our  eyes 
were  not  strong  enough  to  distinguish  their  details 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

at  such  a  distance.  And  this  reason  also  holds  good 
in  the  case  of  the  wagon.  But  it  is  not  only  the  dis- 
tance that  reduces  our  power  of  seeing,  but  also  the 
layers,  or  veils  of  atmosphere  that  hang  between  us 
and  the  object.  We  are  sure  of  this  on  a  foggy  day, 
when  the  mist  lies  low  over  the  country  or  city, 
and  trees  and  tall  buildings  loom  up  like  blurs,  and 
everything  beyond  the  distance  of  a  few  hundred 
paces  is  blotted  from  sight  But  the  fog  or  mist 
is  only  the  atmosphere  more  moist  than  usual  and 
with  its  moisture  condensed  by  cooling. 

When  you  breathe  on  a  mirror,  the  damp  of  your 
breath  is  condensed  by  the  coolness  of  the  glass.  A 
film  of  mist  forms  over  the  mirror.  Of  an  evening 
you  may  see  the  mist  lying  over  the  river  or  mead- 
ows; for  the  sun  is  gone  down  and  the  earth  and 
air  are  cooling.  But  the  upper  air  cools  more  quick- 
ly than  the  lower  part,  since  the  latter  is  still 
warmed  by  the  heat  stored  in  the  earth.  So,  as  the 
cooler  air  from  above  drops  down,  it  acts  like  a 
mirror  to  the  breath  of  the  earth  or  the  air  that 
lies  close  over  it ;  and  this  air  is  condensed  into  mist. 
All  through  the  night  both  air  and  earth  are  cooling, 
but  the  earth  more  slowly,  so  that  there  is  still  a 
meeting  of  cooler  and  warmer  air  and  consequent 
condensations,  and  the  mist  is  hovering  over  the 
meadows  when  the  next  morning's  sun  rises.  As 
the  sun  mounts  up,  it  begins  to  spread  its  warmth 
and  the  upper  air  is  the  first  to  feel  it.  Growing 
warm,  it  rises,  drawing  up  after  it  the  cooler  air 
below.  And  as  the  cooler  air  is  sucked  up,  the 

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Color — Texture,  Atmosphere,  Tone 

warmer  air  closes  in  behind  it;  until,  as  this  cir- 
culation of  cool  and  warm  continues,  the  warmth 
at  last  reaches  down  to  the  mists  above  the  earth. 
And  then  commences  that  beautiful  sight  that  you 
may  see  on  some  summer  mornings.  The  mists,  that 
a  while  ago  lay  like  a  blanket  over  the  sleeping 
earth,  begin  to  stir,  as  if  they  themselves  were 
awakening  from  sleep.  They  tremble  a  little,  then 
slowly  stretch  themselves,  and  begin  to  rise  to  meet 
the  warmth  of  day.  And  as  they  rise,  little  wisps 
of  mist  become  detached  from  the  main  body  and 
float  up  and  disappear,  until  gradually  the  whole 
rising  mass  is  rent  asunder  by  the  currents  of  warm 
air  into  shreds  and  wreaths,  which  curl  and  float  and 
soar  and  at  last  lose  themselves  in  the  warmth  that 
now  wraps  the  earth. 

Later  in  the  day,  if  the  weather  is  very  hot  the 
air,  close  above  the  ground,  becomes  so  heated  that 
it  rises  very  quickly,  and  we  see  a  shimmer  of  light 
upon  its  shifting  patches.  I  mention  this,  because 
I  wish  you  to  think  of  atmosphere,  not  only  as  veils 
of  gauze  hung  between  us  and  objects  we  are  look- 
ing at,  but  also  as  a  moving,  palpitating,  vibrating 
fluid.  We  will  talk  a  little  more  about  this  pres- 
ently. Meanwhile,  let  us  note  some  of  the  effects 
of  atmosphere  upon  form  and  color. 

We  have  mentioned  that  it  softens  the  outlines  of 
objects.  This  is  only  another  way  of  saying  that 
the  objects  appear  less  distinct;  that  even  a  chim- 
ney, though  it  cuts  against  the  sky  in  strong  con- 
trast, has  not  really  hard  sharp  outlines.  At  first 

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sight  you  will  think,  perhaps,  that  it  has;  just  as 
the  cornices  of  the  roofs  may  seem  to  you  to  have 
hard  lines,  and  the  windows  and  doorways  to  be 
sharply  outlined.  But  they  do  not  appear  so  to  an 
artist's  eye,  and  will  not  to  yours  in  time,  if  you 
are  observant.  Suppose  an  artist  with  pen  and  ink 
should  draw  one  of  these  houses,  using  a  straight 
edge  to  make  the  outline  hard  and  sharp.  This  is 
how  an  architect  draws  the  design  of  a  house,  be- 
cause his  object  is  to  make  an  exact  drawing  for 
the  builder  to  work  by.  But,  if  you  have  seen  one 
of  these  architectural  drawings,  you  will  recognise, 
I  think,  that  it  does  not  look  natural;  that  some- 
how or  other  it  is  too  precise  and  tight  and  hard  to 
suggest  the  appearance  of  an  actual  house.  If  this 
were  his  object,  the  architect  himself  would  draw  the 
house  differently.  He  would  make  what  is  called  a 
free-hand  drawing.  He  would  no  longer  represent 
the  edges  of  cornices  and  chimneys  and  so  on,  with 
continuous  lines ;  he  would  "  break  them  up  " ;  lift- 
ing his  pen  for  a  moment  and  leaving  a  tiny  space 
of  white  before  he  continues  the  line;  making  the 
line  thicker  or  thinner  as  he  went  along,  and  occa- 
sionally pressing  on  his  pen  to  produce  a  dot.  In 
these  ways  he  will  break  up  all  the  edges  and  out- 
lines that  they  may  not  be  too  hard,  but  may  have 
the  less  distinct  appearance  that  the  lines  of  the  ac- 
tual house  present  to  his  eye.  For  the  same  reason 
when  he  draws  any  bits  of  carving,  such  as  the 
capitals  of  the  columns  of  the  front  door,  he  will 
not  represent  every  detail  exactly,  as  if  he  were 

196 


Color — Texture,  Atmosphere,  Tone 

making  a  working  drawing  for  the  carver.  He  will 
leave  out  some  and  hreak  up  others,  so  that,  although 
he  plainly  indicates  the  style  and  character  of  the 
ornament,  it  will  not  seem  hard  and  sharp,  but 
softened,  and  a  trifle  indistinct,  as  the  capital  ap- 
pears to  his  eye.  He  will,  in  fact,  make  allowances 
for  the  softening  effects  of  atmosphere. 

Up  to  this  point  we  have  imagined  the  penman- 
ship to  be  concerned  only  with  the  lines.  Now  let 
us  see  how  a  great  pen-artist,  like  Joseph  Pennell,  or 
Edwin  A.  Abbey,  would  carry  his  drawing  further. 
He  would  see  the  house,  not  as  a  skeleton  of  lines, 
but  as  a  mass,  part  of  which  is  silhouetted  against 
the  sky,  while  the  rest  is  seen  in  relation  to  the 
other  buildings  or  objects  that  stand  near  it.  Each 
according  to  his  own  individual  technique,  that  is 
to  say,  his  own  particular  way  of  using  the  pen,  will 
make  his  building  a  mass  distinct  from  the  masses 
of  the  other  buildings,  of  the  ground,  and  of  the 
sky.  And  on  the  masses  of  buildings  he  will  make 
the  windows  appear  as  they  do  in  the  actual  build- 
ing— namely,  as  patches,  darker  in  color  than  the 
walls.  All  this  he  will  do,  because  to  his  eye  the 
different  objects,  under  the  influence  of  the  atmos- 
phere, appear  as  masses  of  various  colors  in  rela- 
tion to  one  another.  More  than  this,  when  you  have 
grown  to  appreciate  fully  the  work  of  Pennell  and 
Abbey,  you  will  find  that,  though  it  is  done  in  black 
and  white,  it  seems  to  suggest  color. 

Elsewhere  I  have  spoken  of  the  fact  that  many 
artists,  especially  modern  ones,  see  nature  as  an 

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arrangement  of  colored  spaces  or  masses  in  relation 
to  one  another.  This  implies  that  they  are  very 
little  conscious  of  the  edges  or  outlines  of  the 
masses.  If  they  think  of  them  at  all,  it  is  to  try  and 
prevent  your  noticing  them  in  their  pictures.  They 
paint,  for  example,  the  head,  and  shoulders,  and 
cheek  of  a  man^  a  bust  portrait — with  a  dark  back- 
ground. If  you  examine  the  picture  closely,  you 
will  not  find  a  sharp  line,  separating  the  head  from 
the  background.  In  fact  the  color  of  the  hair  and 
cheek  seems  to  extend  a  little  way  into  the  dark  of 
the  background.  The  artist  has  dragged  his  brush 
round  the  head,  so  that  it  is  impossible  to  say  just 
where  the  background  begins.  The  reason  for  this 
you  understand,  as  soon  as  you  step  back  and  look 
at  the  picture  from  a  short  distance  off.  The  head 
appears  very  solid;  we  can  believe  there  is  really  a 
hard  skull  beneath  the  full  flesh  of  the  cheeks  and 
the  tight  skin  of  the  forehead.  Yet  the  head  does 
not  seem  to  be  stuck  against  the  background,  like 
a  postage  stamp  on  an  envelope.  Indeed,  if  the  pic- 
ture is  well  painted,  the  dark  part  is  not  really  a 
background.  That  is  to  say,  it  is  not  merely  some- 
thing behind  the  head;  it  seems  to  have  depth  and 
to  go  back,  but  it  also  comes  forward  and  surrounds 
the  head.  The  latter  does  not  stick  out  of  the  pic- 
ture, it  keeps  its  place  back  within  the  frame,  en- 
veloped in  atmosphere  that,  though  it  is  very  dark, 
is  penetrable.  You  feel,  that  is  to  say,  that  your 
hand  could  be  pushed  through  it  without  coming  up 
against  some  wall,  as  it  were,  that  would  stop  it. 

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Color — Texture,  Atmosphere,  Tone 

Now  I  particularly  wished  you  to  notice  that  the 
head  suggested  to  us  that  hardness  of  the  skull  and 
the  varying  firmness  and  tightness  of  the  flesh.  For 
it  proves  that  the  softening  of  the  outline  will  not 
interfere  with  the  feeling  of  hardness  and  strength, 
or  firmness  in  the  mass.  The  effect,  indeed,  is  to 
increase  it,  since  out  attention  is  concentrated  on 
the  head  and  not  distracted  to  the  outline.  On  the 
other  hand,  do  not  suppose  that  the  softening  of  out- 
lines is  always  intended  to  increase  the  suggestion 
of  solidity.  It  may  be  part  of  an  entirely  opposite 
intention;  namely,  to  lose  sight  of  the  idea  of 
solidity  of  mass.  For  example,  the  French  land- 
scape artist,  Corot,  often  represented  the  masses  of 
the  trees  as  soft,  dark  blurs  against  the  soft  light  of 
the  sky.  For  he  loved  especially  the  early  dawn  and 
late  evening,  when  the  light  is  very  faint  and  in  the 
hush  the  trees  loom  up  like  quiet  spirits.  He 
wished  you  to  feel  their  presence,  but  not  to  be  con- 
scious of  their  solidity  and  bulk.  He,  you  see,  used 
the  softened  outline  for  a  different  purpose;  which 
shows  that  in  art,  as  in  other  matters,  a  single  prin- 
ciple may  be  applied  variously  in  different  cases. 

These  tree-presences  of  Corot  are  painted  very 
flatly.  The  roundness  of  their  bulk  disappears  into 
a  flat  mass.  It  was  one  of  the  ways  in  which  he 
avoided  the  suggestion  of  solidity.  But  here  again 
comes  in  the  fact  that  a  principle  may  have  other 
applications;  for  flatness  does  not  necessarily  make 
the  object  appear  unsubstantial.  A  house  does  not 
look  so,  yet  its  front  may  be  flat.  And  Corot,  as 

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other  artists,  and  as  you  may,  if  you  use  your  eyes, 
had  discovered  that  in  the  open  air  all  objects  ap- 
pear flatter  than  they  do  indoors.  The  reason  is  that 
in  the  case  of  a  room  lighted  by  windows,  the  light 
is  always  stronger  near  the  windows  than  it  is  in 
parts  of  the  room  further  removed.  The  light  is 
unequally  distributed,  so  that  there  are  more  shad- 
ows to  throw  up  the  bulk  of  objects.  But  out  of  doors 
the  light  is  more  diffused;  more  equally  distributed. 
Moreover,  we  view  things  from  a  greater  distance, 
so  that  more  atmosphere  intervenes.  The  effect  of 
both  these  facts  is  to  make  the  masses  of  objects 
seem  flatter.  The  lawn  from  a  little  distance  may 
look  very  smooth;  but,  when  you  walk  over  it,  you 
find  the  grass  needs  to  be  cut  and  the  bumps  to  be 
rolled  before  you  can  play  croquet.  That  maple, 
too,  is  a  sturdy,  solid  fellow,  but  as  you  see  Hs  mass 
of  pale  green  against  the  darker  mass  of  hemlock, 
both  seem  flatter  than  they  do  when  you  are  climb- 
ing among  their  branches. 

In  speaking  of  the  softening  of  outline  and  flat- 
tening of  bulk  due  to  atmosphere  we  have  frequently 
alluded  to  the  effect  of  distance  on  the  appearance 
of  objects.  The  further  off  the  latter  are,  the  more 
atmosphere  will  intervene,  the  less  distinct  will  they 
appear.  In  the  case  of  distant  hills,  the  ups  and 
downs  of  the  ground,  the  bulk  of  the  trees,  even  the 
stability  and  massiveness  of  "  the  everlasting  hills,'' 
may  be  softened  and  flattened  into  what  seems  to 
be  only  a  faint  mass  of  color. 

Perhaps  we  have  walked  over  these  hills  and 
200 


Color — Texture,  Atmosphere,  Tone 

know  them  to  be  carpeted  with  grass;  the  greens 
also  of  the  maples,  oaks,  cypress,  each  with  its 
separate  hue,  attracted  our  attention.  But  to-day, 
from  a  distance,  all  these  greens  are  lost  in  a  vapor- 
ous hue  of  blue.  It  is  this  effect  of  atmosphere  on 
color  that  we  will  now  talk  about.  It  is  easy  to 
notice  in  the  case  of  the  hills  because  of  the  great 
quantity  of  atmosphere  that  intervenes  between  us 
and  them.  But,  if  there  were  a  row  of  maples  ex- 
tending from  the  hills  to  us,  so  placed  that  we  could 
look  along  their  entire  length,  we  should  find  the  ap- 
pearance of  their  color  gradually  changing,  as  they 
recede  from  our  eyes.  In  a  word,  to  the  sensitive 
eye  of  the  artist  the  colors  of  even  nearby  objects 
are  affected  by  atmosphere. 

Now,  those  hills  appear  to  be  blue;  another  day, 
they  will  incline  more  to  grey;  yet  another  day  to 
violet  or  purple,  or  pinkish.  In  winter  time, 
around  New  York,  they  would  very  likely  take  on 
a  dry,  whitish  color.  In  fact,  the  color  will  vary  ac- 
cording to  the  condition  of  the  atmosphere  and  the 
quality  of  the  light;  depending  upon  how  moist  or 
dry,  how  warm  or  chill,  the  atmosphere  may  be,  and 
whether  the  light  is  yellow  or  golden,  grey  or  white, 
full  or  feeble,  and  so  on.  It  is  these  constant  varia- 
tions of  lighted  atmosphere  that  give  continually 
fresh  interest  to  the  beauty  of  nature.  Nature  never 
wearies  us  by  being  always  the  same.  It  is  like  a 
human  face,  whose  expression  is  continually  chang- 
ing. 

Sometimes  we  see  a  beautiful  human  face,  with 
201 


A  Guide  to  Pictures 

almost  perfect  features.  But  behind  that  beautiful 
mask  may  be  a  very  dull,  uninteresting  mind.  If 
so,  the  expression  of  the  face  will  be  passive,  the 
opposite,  that  is  to  say,  to  active.  It  will  not  leap 
from  grave  to  gay;  kindle,  sparkle,  grow  tender,  or 
angry  and  joyful  by  turns.  It  will  be — "  faultily 
faultless,  icily  regular,  splendidly  null" — no  expres- 
sion. And  we  may  even  tire  of  its  beauty;  while 
a  face,  less  perfect  in  features,  may  win  us  more  and 
more  and  hold  our  interest  by  the  charm  of  its  con- 
tinually varying  expression.  The  more  we  think  of 
it,  the  more  do  we  realise  that  beauty  depends  upon 
expression.  It  is  the  same  with  nature  as  with  the 
human  face.  Its  beauty  is  affected  by  expression 
and  this  is  produced  by  the  varieties  in  the  lighted 
atmosphere. 

A  moment's  thought  will  satisfy  you  of  this.  Na- 
ture's features  vary  with  the  seasons,  but  change 
little  from  day  to  day.  Every  morning,  during  the 
summer  vacation,  the  same  objects  greet  your  eye, 
but  how  differently  you  feel  towards  them,  accord- 
ing to  what  we  call  the  weather,  which  after  all  is 
the  condition  of  the  atmosphere.  One  day  the  fa- 
miliar features  of  the  landscape  will  take  on  an  ex- 
pression of  gladness,  some  other  day  of  dullness; 
and  the  more  we  study  the  features,  the  more  vari- 
able will  their  expression  appear  from  hour  to  hour, 
day  to  day,  and  season  to  season. 

I  spoke  just  now  of  the  movement  of  the  atmos- 
phere. It  is  a  fluid,  that  one  day  may  be  as  still 
as  a  forest  pool,  another  day  may  be  stirred  like  the 

202 


Light  and  Shade.     George  Inness. 


Color — Texture,  Atmosphere,  Tone 

ocean.  We  cannot  see  its  particles,  but  we  do  see 
the  light  reflected  from  them;  and,  I  suppose,  it  is 
the  differences  in  the  appearances  of  the  lighted  re- 
flections that  make  us  conscious  of  the  stillness  or 
movement  of  the  atmosphere  on  days  when  there  is 
no  wind.  We  need  not  be  very  sensitive  to  nature 
to  notice  these  differences  of  the  atmosphere  at  dif- 
ferent seasons  of  the  year;  how,  on  certain  winter 
days,  the  air  seems  absolutely  motionless;  while  on 
other  days  it  seems  alert  and  sprightly;  how  in 
early  spring  it  seems  astir  with  gentle  life,  while  in 
summer  or  autumn  it  may  be  alive  with  animation 
or  heavy  with  drowsy  languor. 

The  motionless  air  of  winter  has  been  rendered 
with  marvellous  truth  by  John  H.  Twachtman;  the 
stir  of  spring  by  Dwight  W.  Tryon;  the  active  air 
of  summer  by  Childe  Hassam,  and  its  languorous 
drowsiness  by  George  Inness.  All  these  are  Amer- 
jican  artists,  whom  I  mention  only  as  examples. 
For  much  of  the  beauty  of  modern  art,  both  Amer- 
ican and  foreign,  is  due  to  the  sensitive  rendering 
of  the  variations  in  the  atmosphere.  For,  the  best 
artists  now-a-days  are  not  satisfied  to  paint  the 
features  of  nature  only ;  they  aim  to  depict  the  vary- 
ing expressions  on  her  face.  And  the  chief  cause, 
as  I  have  said,  of  these  variations  is  the  constant 
change  in  the  conditions  of  the  lighted  atmosphere. 


203 


CHAPTER   XVI 

COLOR  (Continued)— TONE 

WE  shall  frequently  hear  the  words  tone, 
tonal,  tonality,  applied  to  pictures.  Peo- 
ple say,  for  example,  this  picture  is  rich  in  tone; 
that  has  fine  tonal  qualities;  another  has  a  delicate 
tonality.  It  is  rather  difficult  to  explain  what 
these  words  mean,  for  they  do  not  seem  to  be 
used  in  the  same  way  by  everybody.  However,  let 
us  try. 

It  is  clearly  a  word  derived  from  music,  where 
its  meaning  is  more  definite.  We  speak  of  a  piano's 
tone,  by  which  we  mean  that,  though  it  sounds  the 
same  notes  as  another  piano,  the  quality  of  the 
sounds  differs.  We  shall  be  using  the  word  quality 
often  in  the  present  chapter,  so  let  us  be  sure  we 
understand  its  meaning.  It  is  from  the  Latin  word 
quails,  which  means  of  what  kind.  Of  what  kind 
is  this  piece  of  dress  goods ;  what  is  its  quality,  com- 
pared with  another  piece,  at  first  sight  similar?  Is 
it  all  wool,  for  example,  while  the  other  is  cotton 
mixture  ?  Is  it  softer,  while  the  other  is  harder  and 
drier  ?  Will  the  one  stand  washing,  while  the  other 
will  shrink?  Similarly,  when  the  same  note  is 
struck  on  two  pianos  the  tone  of  one  may  be  rich, 

204 


Color — Tone 

mellow,  resonant,  while  that  of  the  other  is  thin, 
raw,  and  metallic. 

Why  is  the  tone  superior  ?  You  know,  I  suppose, 
that  when  a  piano  string  is  struck  it  vibrates.  That 
is  to  say,  it  ceases  to  be  a  straight  line,  and  becomes 
agitated  into  a  series  of  waves.  In  order  to  in- 
crease the  volume  of  the  sound  a  thin  layer  of  wood, 
called  the  sound  board,  is  placed  beneath  the  strings. 
As  the  string  vibrates,  this  board  vibrates  in  sym- 
pathy, and  so  the  volume  of  sound  is  increased  and 
enriched.  Now  the  least  thing  may  disturb  the  per- 
fection of  this  sympathetic  vibration.  Accordingly, 
the  superiority  of  the  one  piano  is  due  to  the  fact 
that  all  its  parts  are  of  finer  make  and  material, 
and  are  more  perfectly  adjusted  to  one  another. 
They  are  in  so  perfect  a  relation,  that  there  is  no 
jar  in  any  part,  and  thus  the  body  of  the  instrument 
is  a  united  whole. 

The  tone  of  the  piano,  then,  is  due  to  the  perfect 
relation  existing  between  the  parts  of  the  piano. 
Applying  this  idea  to  a  picture:  it  would  seem  that 
tone  is  the  result  of  all  the  colors  being  so  perfectly 
related  to  one  another,  that  the  vibration  or  rhythm 
of  the  whole  color-harmony  is  increased. 

Now  this  is  certainly,  in  a  general  way,  the  mean- 
ing of  the  word  tone.  So,  although  the  word  itself 
is  new  to  you,  the  idea  contained  in  it  is  not.  We 
have  talked  a  good  deal  about  color-relations,  rhythm, 
and  harmony.  You  remember  our  talk  on  Ver- 
meer's  picture.  Well,  his  is  a  tonal  picture,  because 
of  the  perfect  relation  of  all  the  colors  to  one  an- 

205 


A  Guide  to  Pictures 

other.  It  is  beautiful  in  tone;  its  tonality  is  ex- 
quisite. And  do  you  remember  one  particular  fea- 
ture of  its  exquisiteness  ?  I  pointed  out  to  you  that 
it  is  full  of  lighted  atmosphere,  and  that  the  atmos- 
phere seems  to  vibrate;  that  its  rhythm  passes 
through  and  through  the  picture,  uniting  all  the 
masses  of  color  into  a  harmonious  whole.  We  noted 
the  difference  between  this  kind  of  rhythm  and  that 
in  Raphael's  Jurisprudence,  where  the  rhythm  is 
the  result  of  line.  You  could  not  describe  that  pic- 
ture as  tonal;  for  in  it  color  plays  a  very  unimpor- 
tant part  Raphael  was  busied  with  the  relations, 
not  of  color,  but  of  line. 

I  have  reminded  you  of  the  rhythm  of  atmos- 
phere in  Vermeer's  picture,  because  some  people  de- 
scribe tone,  as  the  result  of  fusing  all  the  forms 
and  colors  into  a  whole  by  enveloping  them  in  at- 
mosphere. But  I  think,  if  you  have  followed  our 
talks  carefully,  you  will  see  that  this  use  of  the 
word  tone  is  pretty  much  the  same  as  the  one  we 
have  arrived  at.  For  you  cannot  see  the  effects  of 
atmosphere  except  in  relation  to  the  coloring  of  na- 
ture. And  I  like  our  explanation  better  than  this 
one,  because  it  is  broader,  and  therefore  includes 
more.  It  includes,  for  example,  all  Japanese  prints. 
Many  of  them  exhibit  no  suggestion  of  atmosphere; 
yet  they  are  always  tonal  in  the  sense  that  their 
colors  are  in  perfect  relation. 

Now,  let  me  tell  you  of  another  definition  of  tone, 
which  again  is  included  in  our  own.  Some  people 
will  tell  you  that  a  picture  is  tonal,  because  there  is 

206 


Uolor — Tone 

some  one  prevailing  hue  of  color  in  it.  By  "  prevail- 
ing" we  mean  that  some  one  color  plays  the  most 
important  part.  In  Vermeer's  picture,  you  may  re- 
member, it  was  blue.  The  girl's  skirt  made  a  strong 
spot  of  blue.  We  are  aware  of  other  colors  in  the 
picture,  but  they  play  subsidiary  parts.  What  we 
are  most  conscious  of  is  a  sense  of  blue  throughout 
the  picture — a  prevailing  tone  of  blue.  So  in 
Whistler's  White  Girl — Symphony  in  White,  Num- 
ber One,  there  is  a  prevailing  tone  of  white. 

But  this  is  only  another  way  of  saying  that  in 
each  picture  the  colors  are  in  a  perfect  relation  to 
one  another.  Whether  there  are  more  or  fewer 
colors,  and  whether  we  receive  an  impression  of  many 
colors  or  one  in  particular,  does  not  really  affect  the 
question.  When  all  is  said  and  done,  tone  is  the 
result  of  color  relations,  so  arranged  that  they  pro- 
duce a  rhythmic  harmony. 

#  #  *      ••••'.    *  *  * 

An  artist,  when  he  paints  a  tonal  picture,  has  in 
mind  the  relative  dark  and  light  of  colors,  and  their 
relative  coolness  and  warmth.  Let  me  explain. 
First  the  relative  coolness  or  warmth  of  colors. 
The  artist  regards  blue  as  the  coolest  hue.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  violet  reflects  even  less  light  than 
blue;  still,  for  his  practical  purposes,  an  artist  says 
that  the  cool  hue  is  blue,  and  he  associates  with  it 
violet  and  green.  On  the  other  hand,  yellow,  he 
treats  as  warm,  and  associates  with  it  red  and 
orange. 

And,  if  you  consider  for  a  moment,  the  distinc- 


A  Guide  to  Pictures 

tion  of  warm  and  cool  hues,  winch  is  practised  by 
artists  and  founded  on  the  nature  of  light,  appeals 
to  our  own  experience.  You  will  have  no  hesitation 
in  feeling  that  a  bunch  of  violets,  surrounded  by 
green  leaves,  gives  you  a  feeling  of  coolness,  as  com- 
pared with  another  bunch  composed  of  red  and  yel- 
low poppies. 

Accordingly,  if  an  artist  has  made  up  his  mind 
that  his  tonal  harmony  shall  be  a  cool  one,  he  either 
composes  it  entirely  of  cool  hues,  or  sees  to  it  that 
some  one  or  all  of  them  shall  "  prevail."  The 
warmer  hues  may  be  introduced  for  the  sake  of  con- 
trast, but  very  sparingly.  And,  of  course,  he  will 
reverse  his  use  of  the  hues,  if  he  wishes  the  tone  to 
be  a  warm  one.  This  you  could  have  guessed  for 
yourselves;  but  I  point  it  out  because  most  people, 
I  believe,  prefer  a  warm  picture.  If  it  represents 
the  sun  setting  in  a  mass  of  crimson  over  which  the 
sky  is  orange,  passing  to  yellow;  and  the  effect  of 
this  warm  light  is  shown  on  the  surrounding  trees 
and  meadow,  so  that  everything  seems  to  be  kindled 
into  a  dreamy  warmth,  we  easily  find  the  picture 
very  beautiful.  It  is  so  attractive  in  its  richness  and 
mellow  warmth,  that  the  quiet  coolness  of  that  pic- 
ture opposite  may  seem  tame  by  comparison,  and  we 
pass  it  by.  On  the  other  hand,  if,  recognising  the 
difference  of  the  intention,  we  study  the  latter  pic- 
ture carefully,  we  may  very  likely  come  to  admire 
it  even  more  than  the  warmer  one,  by  reason  of  the 
very  quietness  of  its  appeal,  or  because  of  the  purity 
and  freshness  of  feeling  that  probably  pervade  it. 

208 


Color — Tone 

And  now  for  the  artist's  other  habit  of  consider- 
ing the  relative  lightness  and  darkness  of  hues.  It 
comes  into  play,  whether  his  tonal  arrangement  be  a 
cool  one  or  a  warm  one.  For  by  this  means  he  in- 
troduces contrasts  of  color;  and  as  we  have  pointed 
out,  it  is  by  contrasts  as  well  as  by  similarities,  that 
a  harmony  is  produced. 

There  are  two  ways  of  considering  the  difference 
between  light  and  dark.  One  is  to  treat  it  as  an  ar? 
rangement  of  chiaroscuro,  the  other  as  an  arrange- 
ment of  values.  This  is  a  distinction  that  I  have  al- 
ready explained ;  but  I  will  refresh  your  memory  of 
it,  in  its  special  application  to  tone. 

Chiaroscuro,  as  you  remember,  means  light  and 
dark.  So  it  could  be  used  of  the  light  and  dark  of 
values;  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  is  applied  to  the 
distribution  of  light  and  shadows,  adopted  by  the  ar- 
tists of  older  times,  and  still  used  by  many  modern 
ones.  In  applying  it,  they  represented  the  light,  as 
coming  from  one  direction,  usually  from  behind 
their  backs;  and  as  striking  the  objects  and  figures 
in  the  picture  at  an  angle,  either  on  the  right  side 
or  on  the  left.  They  also  took  care  that  the  light 
should  be  concentrated  or  particularly  bright  at  one 
spot.  On  the  contrary,  the  artist  who  considers  the 
light  and  dark  of  values,  sees  the  light  in  the  scene 
he  is  painting,  and  observes  that  it  pervades  all  parts 
of  it. 

But,  to  return  to  the  chiaroscuro;  its  effect  is  to 
produce  strong  contrasts  of  light  and  shade:  high 
lights,  nearly  white  in  the  parts  most  exposed  to  the 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

light,  and  shadows  almost  black,  in  the  parts  most 
removed.  To  offset  these  strong  contrasts  the  artist 
uses  strong  hues.  The  pure  colors  of  red,  yellow, 
green,  blue,  may  be  used  in  large  masses.  The  re- 
sult is  a  tonal  harmony  of  great  richness,  strik- 
ing magnificence,  or  surprising  impressiveness. 

Of  the  last  kind  is  Rubens'  Descent  from  the 
Cross.  If  you  study  a  photograph  of  it,  you  will 
see  that  the  light  does  come  from  within  the  scene. 
It  flows  from  the  Saviour's  body ;  and  the  light,  as  it 
spreads,  illumines  certain  parts  of  the  surrounding 
figures,  especially  the  heads  and  hands ;  just  the  parts 
in  fact,  in  which  there  is  most  expression  of  feeling. 
The  sacred  Body  has  the  pallor  of  death,  it  is  almost 
white,  while  black  prevails  elsewhere  throughout  the 
picture,  the  only  other  colors  being  the  flesh  tints 
of  the  faces  and  hands,  and  some  dull  green  and 
red.  It  is  an  admirable  example  of  the  strong  con- 
trast of  black  and  white,  and,  let  me  add,  of  the 
amazing  effect  that  such  contrast  has  on  the  imagi- 
nation. Por  it  is  a  picture  that  arouses  one's  emo- 
tions of  awe  and  pity  and  reverence  to  an  extraor- 
dinary degree;  and  the  more  you  study  it,  the  more 
you  will  realise  that  the  source  of  its  appeal  is  the 
chiaroscuro.  The  latter,  though  the  light  is  within 
the  scene,  is  purely  arbitrary.  Rubens,  that  is  to 
say,  did  not  try  to  imitate  the  effects  of  real  light 
and  darkness;  he  chose  to  be  the  arbiter  or  judge 
of  how  he  would  distribute  them.  And  in  the  ar- 
rangement he  had  three  purposes.  First,  he  wished 
to  secure  the  modeling  of  the  figures ;  note  the  mus- 

210 


Color — Tone 

cular  force  he  has  given  to  some  of  the  men;  the 
pathetic  droop  of  the  Virgin's  figure;  and  the  piti- 
able limpness  of  the  Saviour's  form.  Secondly,  he 
was  able  to  make  this  composition  of  contrasts  one 
of  most  impressive  grandeur.  Thirdly,  as  I  have 
already  hinted  in  speaking  of  the  figures  of  the 
Saviour  and  the  Virgin/  he  could  by  means  of  this 
superb  invention  of  light  and  darkness,  fill  us  with 
profound  emotion. 

So  much  for  the  older  method  of  considering  the 
relations  between  light  and  dark.  The  modern  one, 
depending  on  the  light  and  dark  of  values,  derived 
from  the  example  of  Velasquez  and  of 'Vermeer  and 
other  Dutchmen  of  the  Seventeenth  Century,  I  have 
recently  explained  in  connection  with  Whistler's 
White  GMy  Symphony  in  White  Number  Two.  So 
I  will  only  remind  you  that  in  this  picture  there  is 
practically  no  contrast  of  shadow.  The  whole  scene 
is  bathed  in  a  uniform  light.  But  the  contrast  of 
dark  is  obtained  by  putting  in  certain  objects,  the 
red  box,  the  blue  vase,  and  so  on,  the  values  of 
which  are  lower  than  that  of  the  white  dress.  The 
artist  has  thought  of  darkness,  not  as  the  result  of 
shadow,  but  of  certain  colors  being  darker  in  them- 
selves, because  they  reflect  less  light  than  others.  If 
this  is  not  quite  clear  to  you,  perhaps  it  will  be,  if 
you  refer  to  the  chapter  in  which  this  picture  is  dis- 
cussed. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  modern  artist,  even  if  he 
works  by  values  rather  than  by  chiaroscuro,  must 
often  wish  to  paint  a  scene  that  does  involve  shad- 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

ows.  We  know  that  the  scene  may  be  filled  with 
light  and  yet  there  will  be  certain  places  where  the 
light  is  intercepted,  so  that  shadows  are  formed. 
Our  lawn  in  summer  is  aglow  with  warm  light,  but 
every  tree  and  bush  casts  its  shadow.  Or  the  same 
spot  in  winter  is  covered  with  snow  and  the  air  is 
bright  with  cool  light;  yet  here  and  there  a  trunk 
of  a  tree  spreads  a  thin  layer  of  shadow. 

But  the  difference  is  in  the  way  the  modern  ar- 
tist regards  shadow.  He  has  studied  nature  for  the 
purpose  of  representing  the  actual  effects  of  nature ; 
and,  in  so  doing,  has  discovered  that  the  secret  of 
all  effects  is  due  to  the  action  of  light.  So  he  has 
learned  to  look  at  everything,  shadows  included,  in 
its  relation  to  light.  A  shadow  to  him,  then,  is  not 
something  different  from  light;  it  is  a  lessening  of 
the  light.  Some  of  the  light  has  been  intercepted 
by  the  foliage  of  the  tree,  so  that  less  light  reaches 
the  ground.  It  may  be  that  very  little  light  niters 
through  the  leaves.  But,  whether  more  or  little,  the 
spot  from  which  the  light  has  been  intercepted,  still 
contains  some  light.  Even  what  we  usually  call  the 
shadows  have  light  in  them. 

So,  while  chiaroscuro  is  a  contrast  of  light  and 
dark,  the  contrast  of  values  may  better  be  described 
as  one  of  light  and  less  light. 

Observe  how  this  works.  Since  the  modern  artist 
sees  light  in  shadows,  he  also  sees  color  in  them. 
And  their  color  varies  according  to  the  quality  of  the 
light  and  according  to  the  local  color  of  the  spot 
affected.  The  local  color  of  your  lawn  is  green ;  there- 

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Color — Tone 

fore,  even  tinder  the  trees,  where  little  light  reaches 
the  grass,  the  latter  will  still  contain  a  greenish  hue, 
though  the  value  of  it  will  be  much  lower  than  that 
of  the  sunlit  lawn.  On  the  other  hand,  the  hue  of 
the  shadow  will  also  be  affected  by  the  quality  of 
the  light,  differing  according  as  the  light  is  dull  or 
brilliant,  and  as  it  inclines  to  white  or  yellow.  This 
is  too  intricate  a  subject  to  attempt  to  discuss  here, 
but  I  mention  it  in  order  that,  if  you  are  wide  awake 
and  interested,  you  may  amuse  yourself  by  studying 
these  effects  in  your  walks  abroad. 

A  simple  way  of  starting  the  subject  is  to  study 
the  hue  of  the  shadow  cast  by  your  hand  on  a  sheet 
of  white  paper.  I  am  working  by  the  light  of  a 
Welsbach  burner,  and  the  shadow  of  my  hand  is  a 
pale  reddish  purple.  The  other  day,  on  a  bright 
[February  morning,  I  laid  my  hand  on  a  piece  of 
white  paper  and  the  shadow  was  bluish.  In  each 
case,  owing  to  the  amount  of  light  reflected  from 
the  white  paper,  the  shadow  was  very  transparent, 
and  beautiful  in  its  delicacy  and  softness. 

Well,  this  little  example  illustrates  what  artists 
have  discovered  about  shadows  lying  on  snow.  They 
are  very  transparent,  very  delicate,  and  tend  toward 
a  hue  of  blue  or  plum  color,  according  to  the  quan- 
tity of  light. 

Now  to  sum  up  our  remarks  on  tone.  When  we 
speak  of  a  picture  having  tonal  qualities,  we  mean 
that  the  artist  has  so  combined  the  related  darks 
and  lights  and  the  related  coolness  and  warmth  of 
his  colors  that  he  has  produced  a  harmony,  threaded 

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through  and  through  with  a  suggestion  of  rhythm 
or  vibration.  And  the  vibration  will  be  most  felt, 
when  the  suggestion  of  atmosjphere  pervades  the  pic- 
ture. 

In  the  case  of  the  Descent  from  the  Cross  we 
have  already  hinted  at  the  power  of  tone  to  arouse 
emotion.  I  may  add  that  tone  always  makes  a 
strong  appeal  to  feeling — to  abstract  feeling.  The 
tonal  harmony  of  an  opal,  whose  pinks  and  greens 
are  suffused  with  creamy  atmosphere,  arouses  in  us 
delight,  quite  apart  from  any  suggestion  to  our 
mind.  The  delight  is  one  of  pure  feeling.  Can  you 
not  see  thatt  if  an  artist  uses  the  tonal  harmony  of 
the  opal  as  a  color  scheme  for  a  picture,  the  har- 
mony would  still  delight  us  in  an  abstract  way  ?  It 
would  be  interwoven  now  with  the  subject  of  his 
picture,  and  we  need  not  try,  nor  do  we  wish  to 
separate  them.  But  the  sentiment  of  the  figure  or 
the  scene  will  be  all  the  more  tender  and  lovely  for 
the  harmony  with  which  it  is  suffused. 

I  have  in  mind,  for  example,  the  pictures  by  the 
American  artist,  Thomas  W.  Dewing.  They  show 
you  one  or  two  women  standing  or  sitting,  appar- 
ently lost  in  reverie,  while  placed  beside  them  may  be 
a  table  and  a  vase  and  on  the  wall  a  mirror.  If 
you  ask  me  what  the  picture  is  about,  I  will  say: 
Nothing.  There  is  no  subject  to  them  in  the  sense 
that  you  can  describe:  who  the  girl  is,  why  she  is 
there,  and  what  she  is  doing.  So,  instead  of  talking 
to  you  about  the  figures,  I  should  try  to  draw  youn 
attention  to  the  subtlety  and  beauty  of  the  tonal  har- 

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Color — Tone 

mony.  I  should  recommend  you  to  look  at  it  with 
a  mind  as  free  from  outside  thoughts,  as  when  you 
were  looking  at  the  opal.  Then  by  degrees,  perhaps, 
as  the  beauty  of  the  tone  winds  itself  about  your 
imagination,  you  will  begin  to  find  some  sentiment 
of  beauty  suggested  by  the  girl  herself. 

What  I  wish  you  to  understand  is  that  an  artist, 
who  has  the  gift  of  composing  tonal  harmonies,  em- 
ploys them  to  express  the  abstract  feelings  or  emo- 
tions that  he  has  regarding  his  subject  A  celebrated 
example  is  Whistler's  Portrait  of  the  Artist's  Mother, 
that  now  hangs  in  the  Luxembourg  Gallery,  in 
Paris.  I  expect  you  have  seen  photographs  of  it 
and  remember  that  it  represents  an  oldish  lady,  in 
a  white  lace  cap  and  black  gown,  with  her  hands 
folded  over  a  handkerchief  on  her  lap.  We  see  her 
figure  seated  in  profile,  in  front  of  a  grey  wall.  On 
it  are  two  little  black-framed  pictures,  and  on  one  side 
hangs  a  dark  green  curtain. 

When  it  was  first  exhibited  the  artist  called  it 
"  An  Arrangement  in  Black  and  Grey."  It  may  be 
that  he  did  not  wish  to  drag  his  Mother  into  pub- 
licity or  make  a  parade  of  his  feelings  as  a  son. 
But  there  was  another  reason,  a  much  greater  one. 
The  abstract  feelings  that  he  had  for  his  Mother — 
the  love,  reverence,  and  appreciation  of  her  dignity 
and  tenderness — took  color  in  his  artist's  mind  in 
an  arrangement  of  black  and  grey.  What  a  poet 
might  have  put  into  the  rhythm  and  harmony  of  his 
verse,  Whistler  has  expressed  through  the  rhythm  of 
a  tonal  harmony  of  color. 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

Another  artist  who  was  not  a  tonalist,  might  have 
contrived  to  put  into  the  face  and  hands  and  into 
the  lines  of  the  figure  as  much  dignity  and  gracious 
tenderness.  But  his  picture  would  not  move  us  so 
deeply  as  this  one.  For  Whistler — how  shall  I  de- 
scribe it? — has  woven  the  dignity  and  tenderness 
into  every  part  of  the  canvas.  The  mother  sits  alone 
with  her  own  thoughts,  but  all  about  her  is  the 
music  of  color,  choiring  the  love  and  reverence  of 
her  son.  !STo  wonder  the  picture  takes  its  hold  upon 
us;  until  we  see  in  it  not  a  mother,  but  the  type  of 
what  the  conception  of  Mother  means  to  us. 

Its  tonal  harmony  is  one  that  is  distinguished  by 
sobriety  and  reticence.  It  consists  of  quiet  and  sober 
colors;  it  does  not  talk  to  our  hearts  in  brilliant 
glowing  words.  It  moves  us  rather  by  its  silence 
and  reserve,  its  reticence.  I  mention  this  because, 
at  first,  perhaps,  you  will  be  more  attracted  by  bril- 
liant and  glowing  harmonies;  and  they  are  beauti- 
ful too.  They  may  fill  us,  as  those  of  Kubens  do, 
with  triumphant  joy;  or  plunge  us  into  poignant 
emotion  as  do  Rousseau's  sunsets.  But,  just  as  our 
capacity  of  feeling  knows  no  limits,  so  there  is 
no  limit  to  the  variety  of  the  tonal  harmonies  that 
may  stir  it.  And  we  shall  grow  to  find  some  of  the 
most  exalting  and  beautiful  sensations  in  those  har- 
monies that  are  very  quiet,  subtle,  and  that  speak  to 
our  imagination  in  a  "  still  small  voice." 

As  a  farewell  illustration,  to  sum  up  the  meaning 
of  the  quality  and  expression  of  tone,  let  me  return 
to  sound  tones.  Have  you  ever  thought  of  quality 

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Color— Tone 

and  expression  in  the  case  of  your  own  voice?  I 
do  not  mean  the  singing  voice.  Many  of  us  do  not 
possess  this  kind  of  voice;  but  we  all  have  a  speak- 
ing and  reading  voice.  What  are  the  quality  and 
expression  of  yours  ?  I  am  thinking  now  of  the  way 
you  use  it;  of  the  quality  and  expression  of  the 
sounds  you  utter. 

When  you  speak ;  do  you  drawl  "  through  your 
nose "  or  chatter  very  quickly  ?  Are  the  sounds 
shrill  or  harsh  or  monotonous  ?  Perhaps  you  have 
never  stopped  to  consider.  It  is  astonishing  how  few 
people  do.  Most  people  think  of  their  voice  only  as 
a  contrivance  for  uttering  words :  they  turn  it  on  and 
off  like  a  faucet  and  let  the  words  run.  How  fre- 
quently one  sees  a  pretty  girl  or  woman,  tastefully 
dressed  and  of  charming  manners,  who  is  altogether 
pleasing  as  long  as  she  keeps  her  mouth  shut.  But 
the  moment  she  opens  it,  half  her  charm  vanishes. 
There  is  no  tone  in  her  voice;  no  varieties  of  light 
and  shade  in  the  pitch  of  the  sounds,  no  varieties  of 
quietness  or  warmth  in  her  speech;  no  rhythm  of 
effect.  Even  if  it  is  not  harsh,  it  is  disagreeably 
monotonous. 

Or  somebody  else  reads  a  passage  from  Shake- 
speare, say  The  Balcony  Scene  in  "Romeo  and 
Juliet."  He  is  not  as  bad  a  reader  as  he  might  be; 
for  example,  he  does  not  stumble  over  the  words  or 
jump  over  the  punctuation.  In  fact,  he  reads  intel- 
ligently, with  considerable  attention  to  the  meaning 
of  the  speeches.  And  yet,  after  all,  he  reads  very 
badly,  for  his  voice  fails  entirely  to  bring  out  the 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

music  of  the  verse.  The  scene  is  one  of  the  loveliest 
ever  written,  and  it  was  written  to  be  spoken  aloud, 
so  that  the  loveliness  of  the  thought  might  be  con- 
veyed in  sounds  of  corresponding  loveliness.  But  of 
this  our  reader  seems  ignorant  He  does  not  appear 
to  know  that  Shakespeare  intended  every  vowel  sound 
to  be  uttered  in  such  a  way  as  to  bring  out  the  par- 
ticular quality  of  its  beauty;  and  arranged  the  se- 
quence of  the  sounds,  so  that  one  should  flow  into 
another  in  an  exquisite  rhythm  of  rising  and  falling 
melody.  This  reader  "  murders  "  the  beauty  of  the 
scene,  because  there  is  no  quality  in  the  tone  of  his 
voice  and  no  tonal  expression.  Do  you  understand 
what  I  mean? 

If  you  have  not  thought  of  this  before,  I  hope 
you  will  give  it  some  attention  in  future.  For  it 
is  in  the  power  of  everyone  of  us  to  improve  the 
quality  and  expression  of  our  voices. 


218 


CHAPTER   XVII 
BRUSH-WORK  AND  DRAWING 

that  we  have  come  to  an  end  of  our  talk 
upon  color,  I  must  say  a  little  about  brush- 
work.  I  hope  to  show  you  that  a  good  painter  may 
use  his  brush  in  such  a  way  that  there  is  quality 
and  expression  in  the  actual  strokes. 

I  say  a  good  "  painter,"  because  I  am  thinking 
of  that  distinction  I  pointed  out  to  you,  between 
artists  who  are  really  painters  or  colorists,  and 
those  who  are,  more  strictly  speaking,  draughtsmen. 
The  latter,  you  will  remember,  pay  particular  at- 
tention to  the  lines  of  their  figures,  and  then  in 
spreading  the  paint,  are  careful  that  it  shall  not  in- 
terfere with  the  outlines.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
man  who  is,  strictly  speaking,  a  painter,  sees  his  fig- 
ures as  colored  masses. 

I  tried  to  show  you  that  each  method  is  right 
from  its  separate  point  of  view.  But  at  the  time 
we  talked  about  this,  we  had  not  studied  the  mean- 
ing of  quality  and  expression.  So  I  put  off  telling 
you  about  the  possibilities  of  quality  and  expression 
in  line.  We  will  talk  about  it  now,  and  then  re- 
turn to  the  brushwork. 

Eemember,  what  we  are  to  think  of  now  is  a 
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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

drawing  of  a  figure  or  object,  represented  simply  in 
outline,  with  no  added  strokes  to  suggest  light  and 
shade.  It  may  have  been  done  with  a  pencil  or 
brush,  or  in  one  of  many  other  ways ;  but  it  is  only 
outline.  Kow  many  people  think  the  only  purpose 
of  the  outline  is  to  enclose  the  figure,  so  that  we 
may  see  what  the  figure  is.  They  may  think  the 
figure  is  beautiful,  because  it  represents  something 
of  which  they  are  fond;  the  plump  body  of  a  baby, 
for  instance.  But  suppose  the  figure  represents  an 
old  worn-out  beggar,  with  long  scraggy  arms  and 
bare,  misshapen  feet.  Would  they  see  any  beauty 
in  it  ?  I  expect  not. 

Yet,  although  there  may  be  no  beauty  in  the  fig- 
ure, there  may  be  a  great  deal  in  the  lines  which 
enclose  it.  If  so,  the  beauty  of  line,  of  which  we 
are  now  talking,  must  be  an  abstract  beauty ;  due  to 
something  in  the  line  itself,  independently  of  the 
figure  with  which  it  is  associated. 

Suppose  you  draw  a  line  on  a  piece  of  paper. 
What  is  the  result?  The  line  has  taken  a  certain 
direction,  and  it  is  of  a  certain  kind.  It  is 
thick  or  thin,  or  it  begins  thin,  grows  thicker  and 
then  diminishes  in  width,  or  vice  versa.  It  may 
be  faint  or  distinct;  firm  or  wavering,  and  so  on. 
Which  ever  kind  it  is  it  will  be  so,  either  because 
you  wished  it  to  be  of  that  kind,  or  because  you 
couldn't  make  it  otherwise.  In  either  case,  it  is  you 
that  have  made  the  line  what  it  is.  If  you  have 
enough  skill,  you  can  make  the  line  exactly  what 
you  wish. 

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Brush-work  and  Drawing 

Again,  the  direction  of  the  line  is  the  result  of 
a  movement  of  your  hand  and  arm.  Very  likely 
you  moved  uncertainly:  you  were  not  even  sure  in 
what  direction  it  was  moving.  But,  if  you  were  a 
skilful  and  practised  draughtsman,  don't  you  sup- 
pose you  could  so  regulate  the  movement  of  your 
hand  and  arm,  that  the  line  would  take  the  exact 
direction  you  desired?  Yes,  you  would  have  as 
much  control  over  the  direction  and  character  of  the 
line,  as  a  musician  has  over  the  keys  of  a  piano, 
over  which  his  hands  move  in  various  directions, 
sounding  the  various  notes. 

But  is  the  skill  in  doing  this  all  that  makes  a 
good  musician?  You  know  that  he  must  also  play, 
as  we  say,  with  feeling.  This  means,  first,  that  he 
must  be  able  to  feel  the  beauty  of  the  music;  sec- 
ondly, that  he  knows  how  to  move  his  arms  and 
touch  the  notes  so  as  to  draw  forth  from  them  just 
the  quality  of  sound  that  the  feeling  demands,  and 
to  make  the  whole  body  of  sounds  render  an  expres- 
sion of  the  feeling. 

Now,  just  as  the  feeling  passes  from  the  brain  of 
the  musician  into  the  tips  of  his  fingers,  so  it  does 
with  an  artist.  You  will  see  him,  as  he  tries  to  tell 
you  about  the  beauty  of  something,  circling  his  hand 
in  the  air,  meanwhile  curving  his  fingers  and  thumb, 
as  if  he  were  trying  to  grasp  the  beauty.  It  is  an 
instinctive  movement,  due  to  his  habit  of  expressing 
his  conception  with  his  hand.  A  sculptor  will  do 
much  the  same  thing,  only  he  is  more  apt  to  close 
his  fingers  and  express  his  meaning  with  his  thumb 


A  Guide  to  Pictures 

— the  part  of  his  hand  that  he  uses  most  in  model- 
ing. 

One  of  the  most  beautiful  examples  of  feeling  in 
the  hand  is  illustrated  in  the  modeling  of  a  vase. 
The  potter  stands  before  a  "  wheel/'  or  table,  the 
top  of  which  revolves.  There  is  a  spike  in  it  that 
holds  in  place  the  lump  of  clay.  But  while  we 
watch,  it  has  ceased  to  be  a  lump.  It  has  grown  up 
under  the  potter's  hands  and  is  a  hollow  vessel, 
every  moment  changing  its  shape  slightly,  as  with 
his  fingers  or  the  palm  of  his  hand  he  brings 
it  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  design  that  is  in  his 
brain.  He  stops  for  a  moment,  and  we  think  that 
he  has  finished.  But,  no,  he  is  only  criticising  it. 
It  is  not  yet  quite  as  he  feels  it  should  be;  and 
again  the  wheel  revolves  and  the  hand, — oh!  so 
tenderly — coaxes  the  clay  to  receive  exactly  the  line 
of  beauty  that  he  feels. 

And  from  the  potter  we  may  gain  another  insight 
into  the  beauty  of  an  artist's  line.  I  said  that  the 
clay  grew  up  into  the  required  form.  And  certainly 
if  you  have  seen  the  operation,  you  will  say  that 
growth  is  just  the  word.  Now  in  the  line  of  all 
beautiful  drawings  there  is  the  feeling  of  growth. 
"Not  in  a  metaphorical  way,  but  most  literally,  the 
line  grows  under  the  artist's  hand,  impelled  by  the 
feeling  in  him  that  he  is  trying  to  express. 

Let  me  tell  you  a  little  experience  of  my  own. 
Though  I  am  not  an  artist,  I  have  often  made  draw- 
ings. One  day  I  was  enlarging  a  piece  of  ornament, 
in  which  there  were  scrolls  of  acanthus  leaves;  big 

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Brush-work  and  Drawing 

cabbagy  sort  of  leaves,  with  a  curving  spine  and 
crinkly  edges.  The  chief  point  was  to  get  fine  wind- 
ing lines  into  the  curves.  For  a  long  time  I  imi- 
tated the  copy  as  well  as  I  could,  when  suddenly  I 
seemed  to  feel  within  me  just  how  the  curve  should 
go.  It  was  not  a  matter  of  seeing  the  copy,  but  of 
feeling  the  actual  growth  in  my  brain.  And  lo!  a 
miracle,  for  one  moment  my  hand  was  able  to  do 
what  my  brain  prompted.  That  leaf  actually  grew 
under  my  hand.  I  could  feel  it  growing.  And  of 
course  that  was  the  best  bit  of  the  whole  drawing. 
The  rest  was  mechanical;  this  bit  really  lived. 
Well,  in  my  case  that  was  a  miracle  and  has  never 
been  repeated.  But  in  that  moment  I  learned  two 
things — firstly,  what  must  be  the  joy  of  an  artist 
in  the  act  of  creation;  and,  secondly,  that  an  ar- 
tist's line  may  be  a  living  growth;  and,  in  the  case 
of  really  fine  draughtsmen,  always  is. 

Since  then  I  have  watched  the  growth  of  trees 
and  plants,  and  discovered,  as  you  may  for  your- 
self, the  separate  beauty  and  character  that  belong 
to  the  lines  of  growth  of  each  separate  plant  and 
tree.  And,  when  you  have  done  so,  you  will  come 
back  to  the  study  of  line  in  drawing,  convinced  that 
the  beauty  of  line  consists  in  its  expression  of  life 
and  character.  E"ot  only  the  life  and  character  of 
the  object  represented,  but  the  life  and  character  of 
feeling  in  the  artist 

Now  perhaps  you  will  realise  how  a  drawing, 
though  it  represents  only  an  ugly  old  beggarman, 
may  be  beautiful.  Life,  in  all  its  forms  is  wonder- 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

f ill,  even  if  sometimes  horrible.  And  the  expression 
of  it  by  a  thing  so  slight  as  a  line  is  beautiful,  be- 
cause we  need  not  trouble  about  the  object  repre- 
sented, but  be  satisfied  to  enjoy  only  the  life  and 
character  that  the  line  expresses. 

It  will  also  help  you  to  understand  and  appre- 
ciate the  abstract  quality  of  line,  if  you  study 
Japanese  drawings  and  prints.  For  their  way  of 
representing  figures  and  objects  is  not  the  same  as 
ours,  nor  do  we  always  know  what  the  subject  of  the 
picture  is  about.  Therefore  we  are  better  able  to 
enjoy  the  line  in  an  abstract  way,  apart  from  all 
consideration  of  the  things  that  are  represented. 
****** 

After  this  little  talk  on  line,  we  may  now  pass 
to  brushwork.  It  is  no  longer  the  thin  edge  that  we 
are  to  keep  in  mind,  but  the  mass,  great  or  small, 
as  the  case  may  be;  the  mass  of  a  gown,  for  ex- 
ample, or  the  mass  of  one  of  its  folds. 

I  need  not  tell  you  that  an  artist's  hands  may  be 
alive  with  feeling  when  he  holds  a  brush,  just  as 
when  he  has  a  pencil  in  them.  In  fact,  what  we 
have  said  about  feeling  and  expression  in  line  may 
be  applied  to  brushwork.  In  the  case  of  a  man  who 
is  not  merely  a  filler  in  of  spaces  with  paint,  but 
is  by  instinct  a  painter,  the  brushwork  grows  into 
life  beneath  his  hand.  Sometimes  he  lays  aside  his 
brush  and  takes  a  palette-knife,  with  which  to 
spread  the  paint  on  the  surface  or  to  scrape  the  part 
already  painted.  Sometimes  he  uses  no  tool  at  all, 
but  kneads  the  paint  with  his  thumb.  Whether  he 

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Brush-work  and  Drawing 

employs  these  or  other  methods,  is  a  matter  of  com- 
parative unimportance.  The  main  thing  for  us  to 
realise  is  that,  whatever  means  he  employs,  it  is  be- 
cause he  is  giving  expression  to  some  feeling  in  his 
mind.  There  is  a  passage  of  feeling  from  his  mind 
through  his  arm  to  his  hand,  and  thence  to  the 
canvas. 

The  swifter  the  passage  is,  the  more  vitality,  as 
a  rule,  will  there  be  in  the  brushwork.  The  reason 
is,  that  in  such  a  case  the  artist  is  sure  of  himself. 
The  feeling  in  his  mind  is  so  clearly  comprehended ; 
he  so  thoroughly  feels  what  he  wishes  to  express, 
and  is  so  sure  of  the  way  to  render  it,  that  there 
is  no  hesitation  or  sign  of  fumbling  in  the  result. 
It  has  grown  freely  and  naturally  and  the  result 
gives  us  that  keen  and  direct  pleasure  that  we  de- 
rive from  what  is  brimful  of  life. 

You  know  how  stimulating  it  is  to  listen  to  a 
speaker,  whose  words  flow  from  his  thoughts  with- 
out any  humming  and  hawing;  and  whose  words 
naturally  and  exactly  express  the  thought.  In  such 
a  man's  talk  there  is  a  living  growth  of  thought. 
As  you  proceed  in  your  study  of  painting  you  will 
learn  to  feel  in  brushwork  either  the  presence  or 
absence  of  such  living  growth. 

You  will  find  sometimes,  however,  that  the  brush- 
work,  which  at  first  seems  very  much  alive,  is  not 
really  a  living  growth.  It  is  more  like  the  clever 
tricks  that  you  perform  with  your  bodies  in  a  gym- 
nasium. It  is  merely  an  exhibition  of  vigor.  I 
may  liken  this  to  the  oratory  of  another  sort  of 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

speaker,  who  has  a  great  gift  of  the  gab  but  very 
few  ideas.  He  pours  out  of  his  mouth  a  stream  of 
vigorous,  showy,  fine-sounding  words ;  and  fascinates 
you  for  a  few  minutes  with  the  "  exuberance  of  his 
verbosity."  But  presently,  when  you  come  to  think 
it  over,  you  discover  how  pretentious  and  slip-shod 
the  whole  speech  was.  He  was  exhorting  to  patriot- 
ism; but,  where  Lincoln  would  have  left  us  with  a 
few  choice  thoughts,  so  perfectly  expressed  that  they 
will  remain  for  ever  in  the  memory,  this  man  has 
only  bedecked  his  generalities  with  a  confusion  of 
words.  His  speech  is  not  golden,  but  cheap  tinsel. 

Well !  you  will  find  that  there  are  painters  also, 
so  much  in  love  with  the  exuberance  of  their  own 
cleverness,  that  they  are  satisfied  to  do  nothing  but 
make  a  gymnastic  display  of  it. 

You  will  find  too,  that  there  are  others,  to  whom 
the  mere  manual  dexterity  is  so  objectionable,  that 
they  deliberately  try  to  make  you  lose  sight  of  any 
brushwork  in  their  pictures.  Whistler  was  one  of 
these.  He  used  to  say  that  a  picture  is  finished, 
when  the  artist  has  completely  disguised  the  means 
by  which  it  has  been  produced.  He  wished  the  ex- 
pression of  his  feeling  to  reach  our  imagination 
immediately  and  fully,  without  any  other  considera- 
tion blocking  the  way  or  interfering  with  our  ap- 
preciation. 

His  method  of  painting  was  deliberate ;  a  little 
added  to-day,  something  more  another  day;  the 
whole  process  extending,  frequently,  over  several 
years.  For  the  feeling  which  he  wished  to  express 

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Brush-work  and  Drawing 

was  a  very  subtle  one,  so  the  living  growth  of  it,  as 
of  many  things  in  nature,  was  slow.  On  the  other 
hand,  most  of  the  great  painters  seem  to  have  heen 
swift  workers ;  or  at  any  rate  their  final  result  gives 
one  the  impression  of  having  been  executed  in  the 
vigor  and  glow  of  a  swiftly  working  mind. 

The  best  way  to  learn  to  appreciate  brushwork  is 
to  stand  close  to  a  picture,  and  observe  the  various 
kinds  of  strokes  and  dabs  and  streaks.  They  seem 
to  have  no  meaning.  But  step  back.  Then  all  or 
most  of  the  separate  brush  marks  will  have  disap- 
peared. They  are  merged  into  one  another  and  their 
meaning  becomes  clear.  Then,  after  having  thor- 
oughly studied  the  effect  which  the  artist  has  pro- 
duced, you  may  again  step  close  up  to  the  canvas 
and  examine  the  means  by  which  he  has  attained  it. 

If  it  is  a  landscape  you  are  studying,  you  will 
find,  possibly,  that  the  sky,  which  from  a  distance 
seems  to  be  grey,  is  really  composed  of  streaks  of 
blue  and  pink  and  grey.  It  is,  in  the  first  place, 
by  these  streaks  of  the  brush,  and,  secondly,  by  the 
infusion  of  several  colors,  that  the  artist  has  suc- 
ceeded in  making  his  sky  have  the  appearance  of 
atmosphere,  extending  far  and  far  back.  Then,  if 
you  examine  the  trees,  you  may  possibly  find  the 
strokes  short  and  stubby,  so  as  to  bring  out  the  char- 
acter of  the  foliage;  while,  what  from  a  distance 
gave  the  impression  of  being  simply  green,  is  also 
found  on  closer  inspection  to  contain  many  spots  of 
other  colors.  It  is  in  this  way  that  the  action  of 
light  upon  the  foliage  has  been  suggested;  so  that 

227 


A  Guide  to  Pictures 

the  trees  from  a  distance  do  not  seem  hard  and 
heavy  but  penetrated  with  light  and  atmosphere. 

In  this  way,  stepping  nearer  to  and  further  from 
the  picture,  and  continually  asking  yourself:  What 
is  the  impression  that  the  artist  wished  to  convey 
and  why  has  he  done  so  and  so?  you  will  soon  find 
that  you  are  getting  an  insight  into  the  quality  and 
expression  of  brushwork. 

Now  one  word  more.  A  little  while  ago  I  al- 
luded to  "  finish."  What  is  "  finish  "  ?  Most  peo- 
ple think  it  means  that  every  part  of  a  picture 
should  be  brought  up  to  a  uniform  degree  of  polish 
and  precision.  It  should  be  sleek  and  shiny,  like  our 
shoes,  when  the  man  has  finished  shining  them. 

Certainly  you  will  see  many  pictures  that  seem 
to  justify  this  explanation.  But  as  a  rule  they  will 
not  be  examples  of  good  painting.  You  remember 
our  talk  on  texture.  Well,  only  some  textures  are 
sleek  and  shiny  and  polished.  So,  if  this  whole 
picture  is  of  that  character,  some  of  the  texturea 
must  have  suffered.  Then  again,  life  is  not  uni- 
form, it  does  not  show  itself  in  all  people  and  things 
in  the  same  way.  Therefore  it  is  very  likely  that 
the  uniform  polish  and  precision  of  this  picture  has 
interfered  with  its  expression  of  life.  The  whole 
thing  is  mechanical  rather  than  vital. 

No,  you  must  be  prepared  to  find  in  well  painted 
pictures,  all  sorts  of  conditions  of  not  seeming  to 
be  finished;  all  kinds  of  different  styles,  coarse,  re- 
fined, bold,  dashing,  reticent,  and  tender,  brilliant, 
and  modest;  almost  as  many  different  styles  and 

228  C 


Brush-work  and  Drawing 

conditions  as  there  are  painters.  For  a  painter's 
use  of  the  brush  is  an  expression  of  his  own  in- 
dividuality and  life,  as  well  as  of  the  life  and  char- 
acter of  the  subjects  he  represents. 

I  have  already  told  you  Whistler's  definition  of 
"  finished."  It  is  perhaps  too  much  a  product  of 
his  own  personality  to  be  of  general  service.  One 
more  applicable  to  all  kinds  of  painters  and  pictures 
is  the  following.  An  artist  has  finished  his  picture, 
when  he  has  succeeded  in  making  it  express  the 
feeling  that  inspired  it.  This  will  include  Whis- 
tler's definition,  and  also  the  practice  of  a  Titian, 
a  Rubens,  or  a  Velasquez,  whose  brush  strokes  are 
visible  to  this  day,  as  witnesses  of  the  living  growth 
of  their  conceptions. 

Further  it  will  include  many  pictures  that  to 
your  eyes  seem  unfinished.  They  look  like  sketches, 
and,  therefore,  you  think,  cannot  be  considered  as  a 
finished  picture.  But  go  slowly  with  a  thought  of 
that  sort.  As  you  advance  in  appreciation  you  will 
find  that  many  a  drawing  of  a  few  lines  only,  and 
many  a  little  picture,  composed  of  a  few  touches  of 
color,  have  in  them  more  of  the  living  growth  of 
feeling,  more  of  the  charm  of  abstract  beauty  than 
thousands  of  so-called  finished  pictures,  in  which 
the  original  feeling,  if  there  were  any,  has  been  sub- 
merged in  an  ocean  of  trivialities. 


229 


CHAPTEE   XVIII 
SUBJECT,  MOTIVE,  AND  POINT  OF  VIEW 

AT  the  beginning  of  our  talks,  you  may  remem- 
ber, I  told  you  I  should  not  have  much  to 
say  about  the  subjects  of  pictures.  For  I  wished  at 
the  start  to  make  you  realise,  that  what  a  picture 
is  about  is  of  much  less  importance  than  the  way 
in  which  the  subject  is  treated.  A  fine  subject  may 
be  treated  in  such  a  way  as  to  make  a  very  bad  pic- 
ture, while  a  good  picture  may  be  composed  of  a 
subject  in  which  one  is  not  particularly  interested. 
In  fact,  I  wished  to  help  you  to  look  at  a  picture 
first  and  foremost  as  a  work  of  art;  a  thing  beau- 
tiful in  itself  because  of  its  composition  of  form 
and  color;  beautiful  in  an  abstract  way,  that  is  to 
say,  apart  from  the  ideas  suggested  by  the  subject. 
My  aim  has  been  to  try  to  teach  you  to  admire  a 
picture  in  an  abstract  way,  as  you  admire  a  Japan- 
ese or  Chinese  vase,  simply  and  solely  for  its  beauty 
of  form  and  color. 

This  is  not  the  usual  way.  Most  people  begin  by 
taking  interest  in  the  subject  of  a  picture,  and  very 
many  never  get  any  further  in  their  appreciation. 
On  the  other  hand  I  felt  that,  if  I  could  once  get 
you  interested  in  the  abstract  qualities  of  a  pic- 

230 


Subject,  Motive,  and  Point  of  View 

ture,  you  would  be  started  right,  and  that  your 
interest  in  the  subject  would  be  sure  to  follow  after. 
So  our  talk  about  subject  has  been  put  off  until 
now. 

Pictures  are  sometimes  sorted  into  groups  accord- 
ing to  their  subject.  There  are  religious  pictures; 
pictures  of  myths  and  legends  or  imaginary  sub- 
jects; portraits;  landscapes;  historical  pictures,  like 
Washington  crossing  the  Delaware;  genre  pictures 
or  scenes  of  every  day  life ;  still-life  subjects,  repre- 
senting flowers  and  fruits^  dead  birds,  beasts  and 
fishes,  and  objects  of  man's  handiwork;  decorative 
subjects  and  mural  paintings.  But  this  grouping 
does  not  settle  the  matter,  since  each  of  these  sub- 
jects can  be  treated  in  more  than  one  way.  How  it 
is  treated  depends  upon  the  motive  and  point  of  view 
of  the  artist.  ^v-r--  ..A. 

So,  the  simplest  way  to  grasp  this  matter  of  sub- 
ject  is  first  of  all  to  find  out  what  is  meant  by  an 
artist's  motive  and  point  of  view.  As  usual,  let  us 
start  with  dictionary  meanings  of  these  words  and 
then  see  their  application  to  what  we  are  discussing. 

Motive,  then,  is  that  which  causes  a  thing  to 
move,  which  impels  it  What  is  the  motive  power 
of  that  train  ?  Is  the  power  that  moves  it  steam  or 
electricity?  What  is  the  motive  of  any  particular 
artist,  the  force  which  impels  him  to  adopt  a  certain 
method  or  to  work  in  a  certain  direction  ? 

Point  of  view  on  the  other  hand,  is  the  point  at 
which  a  person  stands  to  view  something.  You  may 
watch  a  procession  in  the  street  from  the  point  of 

231 


A  Guide  to  Pictures 

view  of  a  window.  But  the  word  is  more  often  used, 
not  of  where  your  body  stands,  but  of  where  your 
mind  stands.  According  to  our  birth  and  bringing 
up;  that  is  to  say,  as  the  result  of  what  we  inherit 
from  our  forebears,  and  have  acquired  by  education 
and  experience,  we  each  have  our  own  point  of  view. 
For  example,  you  will  not  hesitate  to  say  that  your 
point  of  view  is  American.  You  read  about  the 
Panama  canal.  You  are  not  only  interested,  but 
proud,  because  Americans  are  digging  it.  If  the 
French,  who  began  it,  were  carrying  on  the  work, 
your  interest  in  it  would  be  less  and  your  pride  nil. 
When  you  travel  abroad,  at  any  rate  for  the  first 
time,  you  will  not  be  able  to  help  making  critical 
comparisons  between  the  way  they  do  things  in  Eu- 
rope and  at  home.  You  will  be  apt  to  see  every- 
thing from  the  point  of  view  of  an  American. 
Your  point  of  view  is  the  result  of  your  being  what 
you  are.  And  it  is  the  same  with  an  artist.  Being 
what  he  is,  and  what  he  cannot  help  being,  he  has 
his  own  particular  personal  point  of  view.  Being 
what  he  is^  he  also  has  his  own  individual  motive. 
Through  the  union  of  motive  and  point  of  view, 
he  sees  things  in  his  own  way  and  in  his  own  way  is 
impelled  to  represent  them. 

Since  each  artist  is  a  person  different  to  all  other 
persons,  the  varieties  of  motive  and  point  of  view  are 
infinite.  There  is  no  end  to  the  variety;  and,  as 
you  grow  older,  and  continue  your  study  of  pictures, 
you  will  find  more  and  more  interest  in  looking 
into  and  discovering  just  what  is  the  particular  mo- 

232 


Subject,  Motive,  and  Point  of  View 

tive  and  point  of  view  of  each  artist.  For  he  can- 
not help  betraying  them  in  his  pictures,  any  more 
than  you  can  help  betraying  yours,  if,  being  a  par- 
tisan of  Yale,  you  are  watching  a  football  game 
between  Yale  and  Harvard.  Just  as  your  be- 
havior will  betray  your  feelings,  so  is  a  picture  the 
expression  of  an  artist's  personal  likes  and  dis- 
likes. In  studying  pictures,  therefore,  you  are  also 
studying  the  personality  of  the  men  who  painted 
them. 

I  wish  you  to  feel  that  this  sort  of  study  has  no 
limits.  Its  interest  will  last  you,  as  long  as  you 
live.  At  the  same  time  my  aim  is  to  help  you  to 
enter  upon  the  study.  And  at  the  start  everything 
should  be  made  as  simple  as  possible.  So,  although 
motives  and  points  of  view  are  infinite  in  variety, 
let  us  see  if  we  cannot  find  some  simple  clue  to  the 
study  of  them.  I  think  it  may  be  found  in  dividing 
all  artists  into  two  big  groups.  On  the  one  side, 
those  who  are  inclined  to  represent  the  world  as  they 
see  it  to  be;  on  the  other  side,  those  who  represent 
things  according  to  their  own  ideas.  It  is  the  great 
division  between  the  naturalistic  or  realistic  and  the 
idealistic  motive  and  point  of  view.  Some  artists 
are  naturalists,  or  realists;  others  are  idealists;  a 
great  many  are  a  mingling  of  the  two. 

This  broad  general  distinction  must  be  thoroughly 
understood.  For  you  can  see  that  it  would  be  im- 
possible to  enter  into  the  merits  of  an  idealistic  pic- 
ture, if  you  insist  on  approaching  the  study  of  it 
from  the  naturalistic  point  of  view.  And  vice  versa. 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

The  only  way  to  appreciate  a  picture  is  to  ap- 
proach it  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  man  who 
painted  it  We  must  try  to  enter  into  his  mind 
and  find  out  his  motive  and  see  the  subject  as  he 
saw  it. 

When  we  have  done  so,  we  may  not  like  his  pic- 
ture. That  is  another  matter.  Perhaps  his  motive 
and  point  of  view,  when  we  have  discovered  them, 
do  not  please  us.  Our  own  are  so  different,  that  he 
and  we  cannot  really  agree.  Or  possibly,  while  we 
agree  with  his  motive  and  point  of  view,  we  do  not 
feel  that  he  has  expressed  them  well.  In  either 
case,  his  picture  is  not  for  us.  At  least,  not  to-day ; 
for,  as  we  grow  older,  we  shall  find  that  our  own 
motive  and  point  of  view  are  apt  to  change.  We 
have  studied  more,  and  know  more,  and  may  find 
that  pictures,  we  once  did  not  care  for,  we  now 
admire;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  that  the  pictures 
we  once  liked  have  ceased  to  please  us. 

"Now  for  a  talk  about  the  difference  between 
naturalistic  or  realistic  and  idealistic.  When  the 
art  of  painting  began  to  revive  in  Italy  at  the  end 
of  the  Thirteenth  Century,  the  first  aim  of  the  ar- 
tists was  to  make  their  pictures  more  really  resemble 
life  and  nature.  I  have  already  told  you  of  Giotto, 
who  gave  roundness  and  natural  gestures  to  his  fig- 
ures, made  the  objects  look  more  real,  and  suggested 
the  depth  and  distance  of  their  surroundings.  Next 
of  Masaccio,  who  gave  his  figures  still  more  resem- 
blance to  life,  and  filled  in  their  surroundings  with 
a  suggestion  of  atmosphere.  Then  I  told  you  of 

234 


Subject,  Motive,  and  Point  of  View 

Mantegna,  who  from  the  study  of  the  remains  of 
classic  sculpture  gave  further  naturalness  of  life 
and  vigor  to  his  figures ;  until,  by  degrees,  from  the 
observation  of  nature  and  the  study  of  the  classic 
sculpture,  artists  reached  proficiency  in  the  natural 
rendering  of  the  figure.  So  far  as  form  was  con- 
cerned, their  figures  were  absolutely  natural.  But, 
as  yet,  the  naturalistic  motive  and  point  of  view 
had  not  included  the  seeing  and  rendering  of  na- 
ture's light  That  was  to  come  later. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  study  of  classic  sculpture, 
while  helping  the  progress  toward  naturalism,  had 
started  some  artists  in  the  direction  of  a  new  motive 
and  point  of  view.  For  now  the  appreciation  of 
the  antique  sculpture  became  increased  and  supple- 
mented by  the  study  of  scholars,  who  were  translat- 
ing and  explaining  the  newly  discovered  writings  of 
the  Greeks  and  Romans.  Plato  was  the  special  fa- 
vorite, and  the  Italians  of  the  end  of  the  Fifteenth 
Century  learned  from  him  the  motive  of  idealism 
and  the  idealistic  point  of  view. 

They  learned  from  his  writings  to  think  not  only 
of  things,  but  of  ideas.  Even  to  consider  ideas  of 
more  importance  than  things;  especially  the  idea  of 
beauty.  You  will  remember  that  in  speaking  of 
Raphael's  Allegory  of  Jurisprudence,  we  said  that 
Jurisprudence  represented  an  abstract  idea:  the  con- 
ception of  what  justice  is  in  itself  and  of  the  quali- 
ties of  Prudence,  Firmness,  and  Temperance  that 
it  involves,  apart  from  the  machinery  for  making 
and  administering  the  law.  Men  make  laws,  and 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

some  are  good  and  some  are  bad.  Even  the  good 
ones  are  not  always  perfectly  administered.  To- 
day, in  America,  our  conception  or  idea  of  law  is 
higher  than  our  methods  of  putting  it  in  practice. 
Everywhere,  always,  men's  ideals  are  higher  than 
their  conduct. 

Ideals,  then,  which  are  the  motives,  resulting  from 
ideas,  represent  the  highest  effort  of  man  after  what 
is  best  and  most  beautiful.  Most  beautiful  because 
it  is  best  and  best  because  it  is  most  beautiful. 

Such  was  part  of  what  artists  learned  from  Plato. 
Do  you  see  how  they  applied  it  to  their  art  ?  To 
Leonardo  da  Vinci,  one  of  the  first  Italian  artists 
to  become  influenced  by  the  classic  spirit,  the  teach- 
ing appealed  in  some  such  way  as  the  following : 
The  idea  of  Beauty  is  separate  from  the  things  or 
objects  in  which  it  is  manifested;  just  as  we  may 
have  an  idea  of  smell  apart  from  any  particular 
flower ;  or  of  love,  apart  from  the  object  of  our  love. 
The  highest  ideal  for  an  artist  is  to  express  in  his 
pictures  something  of  this  abstract  idea  of  beauty, 
to  give  to  his  figures  beauty  and  grandeur  of  form 
and  noble  heads;  to  put  them  in  positions  of  grace 
and  dignity.  He  will  not  paint  human  nature  as 
he  sees  it  to  be2  with  all  its  imperfections,  but  will 
people  his  pictures  with  a  race  of  men  and  women 
and  children  of  ideal  beauty. 

This  was  the  motive  that  inspired  those  noble 
Italian  pictures  of  the  Sixteenth  Century.  It  was 
from  the  high  standpoint  of  abstract  beauty  that 
the  artists  looked  at  their  subject  Their  point  of 

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Subject,  Motive,  and  Point  of  View 

view  was  idealistic.  But  this  was  not  the  only  thing 
that  made  their  pictures  noble.  The  artists  were 
inspired  also  by  a  great  demand  on  the  part  of  the  v 
people  of  their  day.  Religion  held  a  strong  place 
in  the  hearts  of  the  people.  They  called  for  pic- 
tures to  beautify  the  churches  and,  at  the  same  time, 
to  teach  those  that  could  not  read  the  beauties  of 
religion.  To-day  people  have  learned  to  read,  and 
books  to  a  large  extent  serve  the  purpose  that  pic- 
tures used  to  do.  But  in  those  days  the  people 
needed  pictures;  and  it  was  this  strong  need,  acting 
like  rich  soil  to  the  beautiful  plant  of  idealism, 
that  helped  to  produce  these  wonderful  pictures.  - 
They  are  the  most  wonderful  that  the  modern 
world  has  ever  seen,  just  because  of  this  union 
of  two  most  strong  motives — the  religious  need  of 
the  people  and  the  exalted  love  of  beauty  of  the 
artists. 

But  note  the  character  of  these  pictures.  Some- 
times, for  example,  the  Virgin  is  seated  on  a  throne, 
surrounded  by  angels  and  apostles,  saints  and  bish- 
ops; or  at  other  times2  Christ  and  his  apostles  are 
represented  in  some  scene  from  the  New  Testament 
story.  The  first  presents  an  entirely  imaginary  ar- 
rangement of  the  figures;  the  second  makes  no  pre- 
tence to  representing  the  scene  as  it  may  have  ac- 
tually occurred.  The  apostles,  many  of  whom  were 
fishermen,  have  heads  as  noble  as  philosophers; 
robes  arranged  in  beautiful  folds  of  drapery,  and 
conduct  themselves  with  the  grace  and  dignity  of 
some  fine  classic  statue.  Every  line,  every  arrange- 

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ment  of  form  and  space,  is  designed  to  assist  in 
building  up  a  composition  of  ideal  beauty. 

Or  with  the  same  motive  the  artist  would  treat 
some  subject  of  Greek  mythology,  such  as  the  story 
of  Psyche.  This  again  was  a  response  to  a  strong 
need  of  the  public.  Not  so  wide  a  one  as  the  reli- 
gious need,  but  still  a  strong  one,  for  among  the 
cultivated  classes  there  was  an  intense  interest  in  the 
old  classic  myths. 

Or  from  the  same  idealistic  point  of  view  the 
artist  would  decorate  the  walls  of  a  City  Hall.  To 
this  also  he  was  impelled  by  a  strong  public  need: 
the  desire  of  the  citizens  to  express  their  pride 
in  themselves  and  their  city  by  means  of  beauty. 
For  by  this  time  the  Italians  had  learned  to 
express  all  their  highest  ideals  in  forms  of  ideal 
beauty. 

But  a  change  came.  The  Italians,  long  a  prey 
to  foreign  enemies  and  quarrelling  among  them- 
selves, at  length  lost  their  liberty  and  their  pride 
in  themselves.  Other  nations  surpassed  them  in 
learning  and  culture;  and  even  Religion  lost  its  in- 
tense hold  on  the  public  mind.  With  the  loss  of 
high  ideals  the  glory  of  idealistic  painting  in  Italy 
waned  and  disappeared. 

But  artists  of  other  lands  continued  to  regard  the 
idealistic  painting  of  the  Italians  as  a  model  of 
what  came  to  be  called  "  the  Grand  Style."  During 
the  Seventeenth  Century  Spanish  artists  imitated 
it  in  their  religious  pictures.  But  elsewhere  it  was 
used  chiefly  for  great  works  of  decoration;  as  by 

238 


Subject,  Motive,  and  Point  of  View 

Rubens  in  Flanders  (Belgium)  and  Le  Brun  in 
France.  The  former,  for  example,  built  up  a  series 
of  magnificent  compositions  in  honor  of  Marie  de 
Medicis,  the  wife  of  Henry  IV  of  France.  They 
are  now  in  the  Louvre  in  Paris.  Le  Brun's  vast 
paintings  and  tapestries,  that  decorate  the  palace  of 
Versailles,  were  designed  to  extol  the  glory  in  war 
and  peace  of  Louis  XIV,  who  at  the  end  of  his  long 
reign  left  his  country  poor  and  his  subjects  miser- 
able. 

In  fact,  idealistic  painting  that  had  once  been 
great,  because  nourished  by  an  intense  religious 
motive  or  by  the  motive  of  civic  pride,  had  sunk  to 
being  a  means  of  flattering  the  vanity  of  monarchs 
or  pandering  to  the  luxury  of  the  idle  rich.  So 
during  the  Eighteenth  Century  it  continued  to  lan- 
guish. The  form  alone  remained,  growing  less  and 
less  beautiful;  the  old  spirit  of  it  was  dead. 

A  new  one,  however,  arose  and  had  a  brief  spell 
of  life,  for  it  was  based  on  the  awakened  desire  of 
the  French  people  for  liberty.  In  the  years  before 
the  Revolution  David  painted  idealistic  pictures. 
He  chose  his  subjects  from  the  history  of  the 
Roman  Republic,  in  order  that  by  the  example  of 
its  patriotism  he  might  stir  his  own  countrymen  to 
action.  The  models  for  his  figures  he  took  from  old 
Roman  sculpture.  His  pictures  fitted  the  temper 
of  the  time  and  helped  the  cause  of  liberty;  but 
when  Napoleon  made  himself  Emperor  David 
passed  into  his  service,  and  the  high  motive  for  his 
idealistic  pictures  ceased. 

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Later  painters  have  turned  again  to  Italy,  and  by 
building  up  imposing  arrangements  of  figures  have 
tried  to  make  the  spirit  of  Italian  idealism  live 
again.  They  have  not  succeeded.  Perhaps  for  two 
reasons.  First,  that  the  old  Italian  compositions 
are  mostly  of  an  allegorical  character,  and  allegory 
does  not  interest  the  modern  mind.  We  are  inter- 
ested in  realities.  Second^  that  those  compositions 
were  based  on  the  beauty  of  form  of  the  human  fig- 
ure; the  artists  made  their  forms  as  perfect  as  pos- 
sible and  placed  them  in  an  artificial  arrangement 
that  would  produce  a  pattern  or  composition  of 
beauty  and  dignity.  But  modern  art  is  more  con- 
cerned with  rendering  the  natural  appearances  of 
the  world;  and,  if  it  idealises  them,  does  so,  as  we 
shall  presently  see,  by  means  of  light  and  atmos- 
phere. 

*  •*  *  *  #  * 

Meanwhile,  that  Seventeenth  Century,  in  which 
Italian  idealistic  painting  dwindled,  saw  a  new  out- 
burst of  the  naturalistic  or  realistic  motive  in  two 
parts  of  the  world;  simultaneously,  in  Spain  and 
Holland. 

I  have  already  told  you  how  Velasquez  in  Spain 
and  the  Dutch  artists  devoted  themselves  to  the 
study  of  the  persons  and  things  actually  present  to 
their  eyes.  They  were  realists  or  naturalists.  Hol- 
land had  cut  herself  off  from  Flanders  and  the 
splendid  vice-regal  Court  of  Brussels,  and  her  own 
noblemen  were  busy  fighting  for  their  country's  free- 
dom. So  there  was  no  demand  for  her  artists  to 

240 


Subject,  Motive,  and  Point  of  View 

paint  handsome  decorations.  She  had  also  cut  her- 
self off  from  the  Roman  Catholic  religion;  and  in 
the  churches  of  the  Reformed  Faith  there  was  no 
demand  for  great  religious  pictures.  These  two 
motives  were  lacking;  but  she  had  another  one — 
a  very  strong  one — the  love  of  country  and  the 
pride  of  the  people  in  themselves.  It  was  strong 
enough  to  produce  a  great  school  of  painters  of 
little  pictures,  distinguished  for  their  great  truth 
to  nature. 

Among  these  Dutch  artists,  however,  was  at  least 
one  who  was  not  only  a  realist  but  an  idealist.  This 
was  Rembrandt.  It  is  of  his  idealism  that  I  will 
speak  here;  and,  to  illustrate  it,  will  tell  you  of  a 
small  religious  picture  in  the  Louvre:  The  Visit  to 
Emmaus.  You  remember  that  Christ  in  the  evening 
of  the  day  of  his  Resurrection  came  upon  two  of  his 
disciples  and  joined  them  in  their  walk  to  the  village 
of  Emmaus.  Not  recognising  him,  they  talked  of 
what  had  happened.  It  was  not  until  the  little  party 
had  reached  the  inn,  and  the  Saviour  raised  his 
hands  in  blessing  the  food,  that  their  eyes  were  opened 
and  they  knew  him.  It  is  this  moment  that  Rem- 
brandt represented. 

When  you  see  this  picture  you  will  find  no  gran- 
deur in  it  such  as  the  Italian  pictures  have.  The 
figures  are  those  of  poor  ordinary  men.  Rembrandt, 
being  also  a  realist,  drew  them  from  the  real  types 
of  poor  Jews  in  the  Ghetto,  or  Jew-quarter  of  Am- 
sterdam. There  is  nothing  of-rixTposing  dignity  even 
in  the  Saviour's  form  and  face.  Whatever  may  be 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

the  idealism  in  the  picture,  it  does  not  depend  on 
form.  Its  motive  is  different  from  that  of  the  Ital- 
ians. Its  motive  is  light  From  Christ's  figure 
spreads  a  light  Is  not  one  of  his  titles — The  Light 
of  the  World?  And  the  light,  flowing  from  this 
humble  figure,  illumines  the  faces  of  his  humble  com- 
panions and,  passing  up  to  the  vaulted  ceiling,  sheds 
through  the  gloom  a  mystery  of  tremulous  glow.  The 
picture  like  the  subject  it  celebrates,  is  a  miracle — 
a  miracle  of  light 

Do  you  see  how  this  was  an  expression  of  idealism  ? 
Rembrandt  in  studying  the  world  around  him  had 
discovered,  like  other  artists  of  his  time,  the  beauty 
of  light  Light  by  degrees  represented  to  him  the 
highest  element  of  beauty  in  the  visible  world.  While 
the  great  Italians  had  found  the  ideal  or  highest  con- 
ception of  abstract  beauty  in  form,  Eembrandt  found 
it  in  light  Therefore,  when  he  painted  this  picture 
and  wished  to  show  that  these  figures,  though  humble 
looking,  were  not  ordinary  men,  and  that  the  event 
was  no  ordinary  meeting  at  a  village  inn,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  idealise  the  scene  according  to  his  own  con- 
ception of  ideal  beauty.  He  introduced  into  it  the 
beauty  and  mystery  of  light 

Please  note  that  word  mystery.  A  mystery  is  what 
passes  beyond  our  knowledge  and  understanding, 
something  that  cannot  be  grasped  by  our  mind  and 
intelligence.  Thus  we  speak  of  the  mystery  of  life: 
scientists  have  discovered  how  the  various  forms  of 
life  have  been  developed  on  the  earth,  but  the  origin 
of  life  is  still  a  mystery  to  them.  Even  when  they 

242 


Subject,  Motive,  and  Point  of  View 

have  traced  life  back  to  the  smallest  conceivable  be- 
ginning, they  are  as  far  off  from  knowing  what 
started  that  smallest  beginning  into  life.  But  be- 
cause they  do  not  know,  do  they  say  "  Oh,  what 
we  do  not  know  is  not  worth  the  knowing  "  ?  No 
indeed!  they  realise,  that  hidden  in  the  mystery 
is  a  truth,  even  more  wonderful  than  what  they 
know. 

Or  again,  some  beautiful  summer  night  by  the 
sea-shore  you  are  looking  out  over  the  water.  The 
moon  is  low  and  her  rays  make  a  pathway  of  light. 
You  gaze  along  it  and  at  first  the  waves  are  clearly 
visible,  heaving  in  the  light;  further  off,  the  move- 
ment of  the  waves  disappears ;  only  a  luminous  glow 
remains,  growing  fainter  and  fainter,  till  far  away 
it  melts  into  that  thin  line  where  sky  and  water 
meet — the  horizon.  Do  you  know  that  horizon 
really  means  boundary,  the  limit  of  our  sight,  the 
point  beyond  which  our  eye  has  no  power  to  see? 
But  is  there  nothing  beyond?  If  we  took  ship  and 
sailed  beyond  that  pathway  of  light,  should  we  ew 
reach  the  horizon?  We  should  only  sail  on  to  find 
the  horizon  continually  beyond  our  reach. 

Or  we  turn  our  gaze  from  the  water  to  the  sky. 
Above  us,  further  than  eye  can  travel,  it  extends.  It 
is  studded  with  innumerable  stars.  We  may  know 
the  names  of  some  of  them,  and  have  learned  about 
their  movements  and  their  distance  from  the  earth; 
but  what  do  we  know,  what  does  any  one,  even  the 
wisest  and  most  learned,  know  of  them,  compared 
with  our  ignorance  of  them  ?  It  will  be  well  for  us, 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

as  we  gaze  into  the  mystery  of  the  heavens,  to  be 
thinking  less  of  the  little  knowledge  that  we  have 
than  of  the  miracle,  the  wonder,  of  what  transcends 
man's  understanding ;  of  the  vast,  impenetrable  mys- 
tery that  surrounds  our  lives.  To  do  so  will  fill  us 
with,  what  we  call,  a  spiritual  joy;  a  joy,  that  is  to 
say,  which  goes  beyond  knowledge,  and  affects  that 
higher  capacity  of  feeling  that,  not  knowing  what 
it  is,  we  call  spirit.  This  highest  feeling,  that  we 
call  spiritual,  has  always  in  it  some  element  of  mys- 
tery. The  truth  of  this  was  curiously  expressed  by 
a  little  girl  of  my  acquaintance,  who  was  very  fond 
of  having  her  mother  read  poetry  to  her.  I  asked 
her  if  she  understood  a  certain  poem.  "  Of  course 
not/'  was  her  quick  reply,  "  what  fun  would  there 
be  in  poetry  if  you  could  understand  it  ? " 

Well,  I  have  spoken  at  length  of  Rembrandt,  be- 
cause his  way  of  idealising  a  scene  through  the  beauty 
and  mystery  of  light,  has  become  the  way  of  modern 
artists.  But  it  was  not  until  nearly  two  hundred 
years  after  his  death  that  the  world  came  round  to 
this  way.  In  the  mean  time  Rembrandt  and  the 
other  Dutch  painters  of  his  Century,  like  Velasquez, 
had  been  forgotten.  The  painters  were  busy  trying 
to  keep  alive  the  other  notion  of  idealism,  the  Italian 
one,  based  on  form.  Indeed,  it  was  not  until  nat- 
uralism again  became '  popular,  that  idealism  by 
means  of  light  was  renewed. 

****** 

I  have  already  told  you  of  the  revival  of  naturalism 
at  the  beginning  of  the  Nineteenth  Century ;  how  the 
.244 


Subject,  Motive,  and  Point  of  View 

English  landscape  painter,  Constable,  was  followed 
by  the  French  landscapists  of  the  Barbizon-Fontaine- 
bleau  group.  You  remember  that  their  point  of  view 
was  nature  as  it  is  visible  to  the  eye,  but  their  motive 
was  also  to  express  the  feelings  of  love  with  which 
it  inspired  themselves. 

Then,  about  the  middle  of  the  Century  appeared 
Gustave  Courbet  who  loudly  proclaimed  himself  a 
realist.  He  meant  by  this  that  he  was  not  moved 
by  sentiment,  as  the  Barbizon  naturalists  were;  that 
he  believed  that  the  only  thing  which  concerned  a 
painter  was  to  paint  what  he  could  see,  as  it 
appeared  to  his  eye  alone.  He  wished  to  limit 
his  art  to  what  is  visible  to  sight.  So  he  thought 
it  was  foolish  for  an  artist  to  attempt  to  represent 
a  scene  from  the  Bible  or  any  historical  subject 
or  subject  invented  by  the  imagination.  As  the 
artist  had  never  seen  these  things,  he  had  no  busi- 
ness, as  a  painter,  to  try  and  represent  them.  He 
was  going  outside  his  own  art  and  meddling  with 
some  one  else's:  the  art  of  the  writer  or  actor,  for 
example. 

Courbet's  point  of  view  of  realism  and  his  motive, 
to  paint  only  what  he  could  see,  were  carried  further 
by  another  Frenchman,  Edouard  Manet.  He  had  be- 
come a  student  of  the  works  of  Velasquez,  from  whom 
he  had  learnt :  firstly,  a  new  way  of  viewing  his  sub- 
ject ;  secondly  a  new  way  of  rendering  what  he  saw. 
This  new  way  of  viewing  the  subject  is  what  is  now 
called  "  impressionism." 

I  am  sorry  to  have  to  trouble  you  with  a  new  word ; 
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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

but  I  think  you  are  prepared  for  it,  since  impression- 
ism professes  to  be  only  a  more  natural  and  real  way 
of  seeing  things.  Of  seeing  things,  that  is  the  point. 
It  does  not  take  account  of  what  things  are,  but  of 
the  impression  they  produce  upon  our  mind,  when 
they  appear  before  our  eyes.  You  are  at  work  in 
school,  and  a  stranger  enters  the  class  room.  He 
converses  for  a  few  minutes  with  the  teacher  and 
then  goes  out.  What  sort  of  man  was  he  ?  If  there 
are  twenty  children  in  the  class,  and  each,  on  arriv- 
ing home,  relates  the  circumstance  of  the  visit,  there 
will  probably  be  twenty  different  impressions  of  the 
visitor's  appearance.  They  will  agree  in  some  points 
and  differ  in  others ;  yet  each  one  of  the  impressions 
may  be  a  true  one — as  far  as  it  goes.  How  far  it 
goes  will  depend  on  the  quickness  and  thoroughness 
of  your  observation.  But  anyhow,  it  will  not  include 
a  great  number  of  details;  it  will  rather  be  a  gen- 
eral impression. 

If  you  look  out  of  window  into  a  street,  you  may 
see  a  number  of  figures  on  the  sidewalks.  You  re- 
ceive a  general  impression  of  figures,  moving  or 
standing  still;  some  men,  some  women,  representing 
various  spots  of  one  color.  Now  a  realistic  painter 
might  say,  "  Each  one  of  those  figures  represents  a 
real  person ;  I  will  paint  him  as  he  really  is ;  and,  to 
do  so,  will  ask  him  to  stand  still  long  enough  for  me 
to  study  him  exactly  in  all  his  visible  details." 
"  And  if  you  do,"  retorts  the  impressionist  painter, 
"  you  will  paint  something  so  real,  that  it  will  be 
too  real.  For  you  never  could  see  these  people  in 

246 


.S 

f 


Subject,  Motive,  and  Point  of  View 

this  way,  if  you  look  at  them  on  the  street.  The 
greater  part  of  the  details  would  be  lost  in  the  gen- 
eral impression." 

Well!  the  more  you  think  of  it,  the  more  right 
you  see  the  impressionist  is — from  his  point  of  view. 
He  says,  if  you  are  going  to  be  natural,  be  really 
natural;  if  you  want  to  make  your  pictures  look 
real,  make  them  real  in  a  natural  way.  If  the 
only  thing  in  art  is  to  be  as  like  nature  as 
possible,  and  to  represent  things  only  as  they  would 
appear,  if  you  suddenly  looked  at  them,  the  impres- 
sionist is  right  And  what  makes  this  way  of  looking 
at  things  particularly  interesting  is  the  fact,  that  it 
is  so  often  the  momentary  effect  in  nature  that  is 
most  beautiful:  the  effect  that  lasts  but  a  moment, 
that  is  fugitive  or  fleeting,  caught  in  an  instant,  be- 
fore it  changes  to  something  else.  You  know  what 
I  mean  from  your  own  experience.  A  certain  ex- 
pression passes  over  your  friend's  face.  "  Oh !  if 
I  could  only  photograph  her  now,"  you  exclaim ;  but 
by  the  time  you  have  arranged  your  camera,  it  is 
gone,  and  cannot  be  brought  back  to  order.  Well, 
it  is  just  that  fugitive,  fleeting  expression  of  a  sub- 
ject that  the  realist,  who  is  an  impressionist,  tries  to 
represent  in  his  pictures. 

So  far  I  have  tried  to  explain  the  impressionist's 
point  of  view.  Now  let  us  consider  his  way  of  ren- 
dering what  he  sees.  The  whole"  secret  of  it  is  the 
part  which  light  plays  in  the  appearance  of  things. 
Manet  and  the  other  impressionists,  among  whom 
Claude  Monet  and  Whistler  are  the  most  important, 

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A  Guide  to  Pictures 

see  every  thing,  as  Yermeer  did,  enveloped  in  light. 
But  they  have  gone  further  than  he. 

They  have  studied  much  more  closely  the  ever 
varying  qualities  of  light,  as  it  differs  according  to 
place  and  season  and  even  time  of  day.  Monet  has 
painted  a  series  of  pictures  the  subject  of  every  one 
of  which  is  the  same  haystack.  At  least  that  is  how 
some  people  might  describe  them.  But,  if  they  enter 
into  Monet's  point  of  view,  they  would  say  that  the 
real  subject  is  not  the  haystack  but  the  effect  of  light 
upon  its  surface,  and,  as  the  effect  of  light  is  differ- 
ent in  every  case,  none  of  the  pictures  are  similar  to 
one  another.  Each  represents  a  separate  fugitive 
expression  of  light.  Monet,  in  them  and  other  pic- 
tures, has  recorded  with  extraordinary  subtlety  the 
impression  presented  to  his  eye.  For  Monet's  im- 
pressionism was  also  naturalistic. 

Whistler,  on  the  other  hand,  with  no  less  subtlety, 
rendered  also  the  impression  that  the  things  seen 
had  made  on  his  imagination.  He  was  an  idealistic 
impressionist.  He  painted,  for  example,  a  number 
of  night-scenes,  or  "  nocturnes,"  as  he  called  them. 
The  actual  objects  in  them  are  of  less  importance 
than  Monet's  haystack,  because  in  the  dim  light  of 
twilight  or  night  they  are  only  faintly  visible. 
Whistler  did  not  wish  us  to  be  aware  of  the  form 
of  the  bridge,  or  the  boat,  the  sea  and  shore,  or  what- 
ever the  objects  may  be.  He  wished  us  to  be  con- 
scious of  them  only  as  Presences  looming  up  like 
spirit-forms  in  the  mystery  of  the  uncertain  light. 
Such  nocturnes  as  Battersea  Bridge  and  the  sea-shore 

248 


Subject,  Motive,  and  Point  of  View 

picture,  Bognor-Nodurne,  appeal  to  us  like  Rem- 
brandt's Visit  to  Emmaus.  Just  as  the  latter's  forms 
were  humble,  so  the  bridge  itself  is  an  ordinary  sort 
of  structure,  and  the  sea-shore  and  the  boats  are 
without  any  unusual  distinction.  Yet  in  each  case 
the  scene  has  been  idealised  through  the  mystery  of 
light,  and  appeals  to  our  spiritual  imagination. 
After  two  hundred  years  Rembrandt's  new  principle 
of  idealisation,  founded  upon  the  abstract  beauty  of 
light  instead  of  on  the  abstract  perfection  of  form, 
has  been  accepted  by  modern  artists. 

To  a  greater  or  less  degree  all  artists,  whether 
naturalists  or  idealists,  who  are  painting  in  the  mod- 
ern spirit  have  been  influenced  by  Monet  and  Whist- 
ler. The  example  of  these  two  has  spread  far  and 
wide  the  study  and  rendering  of  light.  But,  while 
their  followers  agree  in  this  motive,  they  are  inde- 
pendent in  their  points  of  view.  There  are  some 
whose  point  of  view,  like  Monet's,  is  objective.  They 
are  content  to  render  the  impression  made  upon  their 
eyes.  But,  as  their  eyes  see  differently  from  Monet's, 
their  pictures  are  different  from  his.  Each  is  the 
record  of  a  separate  personality.  Equally,  while 
others,  like  Whistler  are  subjective,  recording  the  im- 
pression produced  upon  their  minds,  their  pictures 
vary  according  to  the  character  and  quality  of  their 
separate  minds.  In  fact,  in  later  times,  a  notable 
feature  of  painting  is  its  diversity  of  motives  and 
points  of  view. 

Let  me  try  to  explain  this.  Ever  since  the  Ameri- 
can and  French  Revolutions,  there  has  been  a  grad- 

249 


A  Guide  to  Pictures 

ually  increasing  interest  in  what  we  call  individual- 
ity. The  main  object  of  these  revolutions  was  to 
establish  the  right  of  each  and  every  individual  to 
life,  liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness,  and  the 
idea  of  government  now  is  to  give  every  individual 
the  chance  of  making  the  most  of  his  or  her  possi- 
bilities. Your  teachers,  for  example,  are  not  running 
their  classes  as  machines;  they  are  trying  to  make  a 
personal  study,  so  far  as  possible,  of  each  one  of  you, 
in  order  to  help  you  to  develop  your  particular  in- 
dividuality. For  a  long  time  this  has  been  the  prin- 
ciple of  education  and  government.  The  result  is 
that  there  has  been  a  universal  increase  in  individu- 
ality, since  numbers  of  people  who  had  some  special 
possibility  have  had  a  chance  to  develope  it  To-day, 
in  fact,  there  is  probably  nothing  that  counts  more 
than  individuality.  This  being  so  it  is  natural  that 
we  should  look  for  it  in  art.  And,  if  we  do,  we  shall 
find  it. 

In  former  times  there  were  "  schools  of  art."  In 
Italian  art,  we  speak,  for  example,  of  the  Florentine 
School,  the  Venetian  School,  the  Roman  School;  or 
we  speak  of  the  Flemish  School,  and  Dutch  Schools 
and  so  on.  In  each  case  the  artists,  living  in  a  cer- 
tain city  or  country,  had  sufficient  resemblance  among 
themselves  in  their  motives  and  methods  of  painting 
to  produce  a  certain  separate  style.  So,  to-day,  if  an 
expert  sees  an  old  picture,  he  is  able  to  say  at  once 
and,  more  often  than  not  correctly,  that  it  belongs 
to  such  and  such  a  school. 

But  an  expert  of  a  hundred  years  hence,  when  he 
250 


Subject,  Motive,  and  Point  of  View 

sees  our  modern  pictures,  will  not  speak  of  Schools. 
He  may  see  at  once  that  the  picture  is  by  an  Amer- 
ican, a  German,  or  a  French  artist,  for  difference 
of  race  and  habit  of  life  and  thought  do  still  stamp 
in  a  general  way  the  pictures  of  each  separate  coun- 
try. But  even  within  the  limits  of  any  one  country 
there  are  as  many  varieties  of  motive  and  point  of 
view  as  there  are  individuals. 

So  in  modern  times,  more  than  ever  before,  there 
is  an  individual,  personal  note  in  pictures,  just  as 
there  is  in  books.  The  artist  makes  the  picture  an 
expression  of  his  own  personal  feelings.  This  is  one 
reason  why  modern  pictures  are  inferior  to  the  old 
ones  in  grandeur  and  dignity.  The  older  ones  were 
not  only  larger  in  size,  as  a  rule,  but  they  were  im- 
personal, like  a  fine  building  is.  The  architects  who 
designed  the  Capitol  at  Washington  put  their  own 
personal  expression  into  it.  But  we  do  not  feel  it, 
as  we  look  at  their  work.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  the 
impersonal,  monumental  dignity  of  the  work  that  im- 
presses us.  But  in  most  modern  pictures,  instead  of 
what  is  impersonal,  we  receive  a  distinct  impression 
of  intimacy,  of  sharing  the  artist's  feeling.  And  it 
is  the  expression  of  this  that  we  not  only  look  for  but 
enjoy  discovering.  We  often  speak  of  it  as  the  sen- 
timent of  the  picture. 

This  sentiment  may  be  of  all  sorts  and  shades  of 
feeling,  "  from  grave  to  gay,  from  lively  to  severe." 
It  may  be  romantic  in  spirit,  appealing  to  us  through 
the  suggestion  of  what  is  weird  and  surprising;  it 
may  be  full  of  the  tenderness  or  of  the  trumpet  call 

251 


A  Guide  to  Pictures 

of  poetry;  it  may  invite  us  to  gentle  reverie,  or  stir 
in  us  a  profound  and  poignant  emotion.  But  I  have 
said  enough  to  point  your  way. 

*  *  *          *  #  *  * 

In  conclusion  let  me  sum  up  the  contents  of  this 
long  chapter.  We  have  seen  that  there  are  two  main 
streams  of  motive  and  point  of  view;  the  idealistic 
and  the  naturalistic.  The  former  flows  from,  the 
artist's  desire  to  represent  his  conception  of  ideal 
beauty,  the  latter  from  his  love  of  nature.  We  have 
seen  that  they  have  alternately  reached  their  highest 
flood,  because  the  conditions  of  the  times  supplied  a 
great  public  need  to  which  each  in  turn  responded. 
Lastly,  we  have  seen  that  gradually  both  tendencies 
have  undergone  a  change.  Whereas  originally  both 
the  naturalistic  and  the  idealistic  motive  were  con- 
cerned with  form,  they  came  to  be  concerned  par- 
ticularly with  light. 

Therefore,  wTien  you  look  at  a  picture,  ask  your- 
self :  Has  the  artist  simply  tried  to  render  the  visible 
appearance,  or  has  he  also  tried  to  make  the  subject 
interpret  some  feeling  of  his  own  ? 

If  he  is  simply  rendering  the  visible  appearance: 
Has  he  been  conscious  only  of  form,  or  has  he  viewed 
the  form  in  its  envelope  of  lighted  atmosphere? 
Further,  has  he  tried  to  represent  the  visible  appear- 
ance, as  we  should  find  it  to  be,  if  we  studied  each 
and  every  part  of  it  separately;  or  he  has  tried  to 
give  the  impression  of  the  entire  scene,  as  it  really 
reached  his  eyes  ? 

If  he  is  interpreting  through  the  subject  his  own 
252 


Subject,  Motive,  and  Point  of  View 

feeling:  What  is  the  quality  of  the  feeling?  Does 
the  picture  simply  express  the  artist's  consciousness 
of  the  grandeur  or  the  loveliness  of  nature,  or  does  it 
also  interpret  his  feeling  for  the  mystery  of  things 
not  seen  ? 

Here  are  a  few  hints  for  you  in  setting  out  to  ex- 
plore the  vast  country  of  motive  and  point  of  view. 


THE   EITD 


253 


FOURTEEN  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 


This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


DEC  16  1955  LU 


MAY  1 2  19b9  ^AN  DEPT. 


LD  21-100m-2,'55 
(B139s22)476 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


XC f 14150        - 

s 


'85870 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


